Just curious if anyone can vouch for this discounter? Are they legit? Thank you

Bonjour,

It is I, Chris, yet again -- here again, on the Placebo board, again.
I tell you, I feel like my mind is hot afire, ablaze with flames. My thoughts are gonsumed with Brian and all things Placebo. Sometimes I feel utterly terrified -- not only because of these pervasive thoughts but also because of the day to come, which fills me with dread.
https://preview.redd.it/qs7lxlhyzxxc1.jpg?width=1024&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=dd381e4e3d12fdf32b6bc9819b5dc9a2043961c3
"But Chris, what are this thoughts about?"
Well, I shall now tell you: I keep facing enemies of Placebo all over. There are more enemies than friends. I am afraid Brian was wrong. There ain't "too many friends," but rather, "too few friends and massive amounts of Placebo-hating enemies." It all takes a heavy toll on my mind.
The other night, I was hotly troubled, so I fled to the pub. There, I got into a big discushion about music with two dumb-dumb guys. During our talk, Placebo pecame a topic, and without cause, these two men attack the band, Brian, and the Solemates. Howevert, I, Chris, stud against these guys and defende the world of Placebo. IT got so bad that I foughted the men physically.
And so, this story will show how the other humans think of Brian, Placebeo, And the Solemates. (It is unflattering. They say that we are all insane, mismarble people with psychopathique disodor and mental illnesses.) I also tell this true account because, when I fought for Placebo, I believe I vindicated myself. My good dead was an act of redemption for myself, and it releaved me of many guilty feelings inside.
And now, I shall give the full story and explain everything in depth. But Please, be forewarned: when I tell you about my interaction wit the wiseguys at the pib, these pub-men used ugly profanity, ugly curse works, and said some degrading statement about Brian, Placebo, and this and that. Among other bads, they willfully misgender Brian and threw around bonmots, epithets, sobriquets, and all this vile shit. The guys said some little remark about gays, lesbian, and such. (It ain't too bad. I curb much of the inflamatory words, so do not fear. But still, I don't wanna shock any of the Solemates with the content. So, veiwer descration is advise.)

How Non-fan People Think of Placebo. OR, The Vindication Of Chris (that is I) Through the Restorative Pover of Placebo

https://preview.redd.it/39krml160yxc1.jpg?width=1024&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=e7ffaf2d8eedd7abc4f9ba9394718c96ecb71d14
To begin, I will begin at the beginning: the time when this first began.
My last series of post on this Placebo subs-board caused quite a rather big turmoil. That was when my pain started.
As some of you may remember, I had unwisely prophesied a theroy and alleged that Brian's brother is none other than Kurt Harland, the generous American frontman of the electro-pop outfit, Information Society.
Brian Molko is related to another rockstar?
https://preview.redd.it/n18f60es7yxc1.jpg?width=271&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=75a084e7b563a93afee7adcf6348ad4e52d520eb
As I prepared this report, it became an obsession for me. Worse still, I began to resent Brian because I felt that he had cheated us all when he withheld the informations I had found. Truly, I became the witch-hunter specialist of old, and I wanted nothing but to consign this "Sexy Witch Brian" to the strappado and reveal his bugs to the populace. And so I hated Molko but loved him at the same time. Truly, this was an extemelty volatile and confusing situation for me, Chris.
Finally, I shared my findings with you Soulmates on this sub-board. In reaction, you tolded me that my report was all mere hearsay; and not only this, but also that I had done a massive violation of Brian's Personal Private Privacy. Indeed, you said that it was as though I had tried to envade on the guy while he was naked and photograph him unawares, and then sell the pictures to Lui or Playmen magazines.
And so, in the end, all my work amounted to nothing, like a worthless tenage kid's wet dream -- something similar to the situation Brian sings about in his song, "Teenage Angst." Indeed, it was all just a gross distortion of reality. I was nothing but a delusion mess who failed everybody: YOU, ME, PLACEBO, AND BRIAN.
https://preview.redd.it/cq6ow2ah0yxc1.jpg?width=1024&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=8ec54a89890b4b0c3346d9c830bb7e39ae104285
Apologise as I might, it still was not enought (Please see - My Apologies To The Soulmates For My Last Post!). Nothing helped. For I could not stop the guilt inside. Truly, I felt utterly morgueified -- disgusted with my self and with who I was. For days, I went about like the zombie -- empty, blank and distant -- with no hope.
On one morning, I awoke and drank some milk. An innocent act, to be sure. Yet, the flesh of the milk -- the calm texture, flavor, and color -- reminded me of someone who more or less shares its very namesake: Molko. And this was the "point of breaking," so to speak. I just could not take the constant guilt and painful memories no more.
Thus, I thought to end myself in an ultra-sexy way -- but during a wild romp like Brian may have done, back during the late '90s, when he was at the pack of his intensity: sexy-good, with a compact stature and the highest voice he ever had. I wanted to embody the rage of his passion -- the art of it.
I thought to myself, "What must I do to achieve the romantique auto-destruction of Placebo at its finest?"
https://preview.redd.it/qo4e8qzm0yxc1.jpg?width=1024&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=58a5c442672a5c98f183949f5eed20a299b8478d
I then made a series of rather grim prophecies to my self. First, I thought to do like Brian in "This Picture" and find his Ashtray Girl to put off cigarettes on my breast and kill me thereby -- an ultra-sexy death worthy of Brian Himself. However, I then realized that I cannot invoke The Ashtray Girl Dominatrice; and besides, cigarette brun cannot kill a man dead.
Farewell the Ashtray Girl -- Angelic Snewflake
Next, I recalled the music video of "Pure Morning," where Molko stands at attention, on the edge of the ledge, atop some skyscraper building, somewhere in Europe. He then threws his beautiful self off. His death by failing seems certain. Howevert, his toenails are pretreated with a black polish, and the resultant suction effect enables him to safely walk down the side of the building like a real-life Spider-men. And so, I wanted this same thing for myself, sans the walking down. Rather, I wanted to come falling down to a crushing end, worthy of Lacebo Itself.
https://preview.redd.it/mx2z6xq61yxc1.jpg?width=1024&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=f6ba500fa9ea04b49ef32d312d6c63aebc54b1e0
Yet, this too was implausible for me because I "had not enough balls," as the crass American idiom goes. So, I did not jump myself from the great height and fall into the sweet by-and-by, in a fashion similar to Brian Sealo in his aforementioned musique vido.
Frustrated, I then thought to merely run wild like in "Nancy Boy" and thus become the literal fulfillment of the pony nancy-boy -- running around, doing odd-jobs, and taking substance, just like in the song's explosive lyric.
My friends, When Brian Moko was at the high of his appeal, he had the tools to be the ultimate Nancy's Boy. He was able to attract other people to be his lovers. After all, he had the faces, the abs, the looks, and the face.
\"Nancy-boy\" Brian at his peak, with his bobocks expose
With his addonoy face, fancy cigarette, and vintage lipsticks, he was the talk of the town, much like a French prostitutor from the '40s. Many knew this. His look apealed to many people. The younger women -- arts student types and goths girls -- were astonished by his unique style and ghostly visage. And so, he could take from among these woman whomever he preferred and slip into the boardroom.
Conversely, if Brian wanted to date some guy, he could do that too, cause the gay guys whent bewilder for his fancy-boy look and outrageous set of elastics. There were many gays. And Brian was the darling of all -- men, women, people of other gender, or whatever.
Add to this, Molko could do whatever drugs and booze he pleased because his access was without cease. All these vital component gave him the edge he needed to become, if he so desired, the ultimate hedonis -- in other words, the real Nacy-boy the song describes. And in so doing, he could have brought on a swith self-destruction, the likes of which would have been sexy-dynamique.
Unlike Brian, I do not got the skill, the looks, or the mystique persona -- things which are necessary to pull the nancy-boy ploy. I don't use the makeup (I once tried eyeliner, but it looked like a shit -- not aristocratic and mysterious like Brian). Furthermore, I ain't bisexual like Brian proffessed himself to be. I could never get a girl but never desired to date a guys. Plus, I ain't no party-maker with good meds and alcohol like Brians used to have lying about. Thus, I could not become the Nany-boy and auto-destruct.
For quite some time, I continued to obsess about fantastique daring-do to conclude myself in a fashion worthy of Malko Himself. But then, the realization hit me hard: Life is precious, and time is too few to waste. And Brian -- now a grim, mustached adult man -- knows full well that we must afrim life, live, and all of this sort of thing. (For life affirmation is indeed the thematic basis of his posthume release, "Battle for The Sun," N'est-ce pas?)
Older Brian of today: a responsible adult guy who affirm life
I needed to recapture a well-balance view. Thus, I went off to the local pub to reflect. There I could drink the élixir, smoke on the cigarette, and maybe chat with some other humans about life and similar stuff. And this, I hoped, would continue me on the road to recovery from my depression spirit
So, I wound up at this local place, a pub in Escaroles et Molenbeek. No so nice, but not too bad. Noisy, with tourists. At the bar, I ordered a little Vodker and Tonic, and then saluted myself in the mirror. The consumed alcohol quickly mixed with the blood in my viens, and thus I felt quite good -- almost like my usual self again.
I tried to imagine myself as Brian in the "Every You Every Me" musique video. Indeed, I sat there, quite col, just like Brian does -- a cool, swave guy. (I do not wear makeups or androgynous attire like Molko does in the music video, but in my mind's eye, I saw myself as this man: smaller, slednor, shexy, with the longer hair, eye-liner, green eyes of Malice, and the little cigarette.)
\"In my mind, I envision myself as Yorko\"
And so, feeling quite nice, I overlooked the establishment while sipping my adult beverage. Amongst the pub people, there were these two guys -- tall, but fatter in build -- whose voices rose above the din of the chatter. They were English. I could tell by their accents and features. Their wardrobe consisted of warm-up frock and athletic garb. They drank their bitter beer and loudly shouted about the football and this and that. Then they professed the band Oasis to be the best of the best -- better than the rest.
ME, Chris, the liker of music, had to interject. The alcohol had made me somewhat more social. And so I joined their little chat. (What a stupid decision on my part; and against my instinkt.)
"Blur is better than Oasis. And Suede is better than both of those bands," I cut in.
"Who is this geezer?" asked one of them.
They acted as though I was but a clown, and I did not like it one bit.
"Who I am is none of your concern," I told them, "but know this: I tell you Placebo is a more excellent band than Oasis, which is a completed load of shit."
Then these two frowned and made all manner of squish faces.
I added, "Oasis is overrated and for fake machismo-men who need to compensate for some absurd secret inner-fears."
"Bollocks. Placebo is weird, and their fans isa right dodgy bunch," replied one of the guys.
I said, "What you are saying to me, man?"
"I'm telling you, mate," responded this guy, rising his voice, "that Placebo fans is nutters like you."
"Placebo is for qhueers," said the other guy, nastily.
So I said, "Don't play funny with me, monsieur. Placebo is for whomever desires it. Gays, straights, or whomever. It is a gift to all the people, regardless of sese, creed, or whatever. Truly, your ignorance offend me."
"Their music is rubbish anyway!" shouted the other guy. Clearly, these two were drunk and roddy. Therefore, I thought it best not to insult them.
"You stupid limey," I retorted, but very respectfully. "Placebo is certainly no rubbish. Truly, you guys are the most arrogance people ever I have seen."
Then they began to tease, shouting, laughing, saying that Brian is a sexy little girl and that I should marry him, or some such nonsensical.
"Mark my words: Do not misgrender this man," I said, sharply rising my voice. "He is an aesthete, and he merely plays with the makeup. It is artifice for his enjoyment, and he is not truly a girl. Besides, what do you care if Molko is a lesbian, as you a ledge? What the F is it of your business? And why the F are you two English guys doing here in Belgium anyway?"
Then they told me I am a "tranny-tracer."
"What the F is this mean?" I asked.
They explain that Brian is transgender and that I wanted to heave sex with him in a mysterious stronghold somewhere afar off.
"Oh, that is simply incorrect," I answered. "Firstly, Bernard Molko is no Trans; and second, I never wanted to make love on him. I merely wanted him to be my older brother figure who is kind like a sister ... or perhaps, like an older sister figure who is fun like a brother, or something to this effect."
I further explained that if I met a French girl who looks and sounds similar to Brian, yes, that would be quite good; and I would indeed date her due to the uncanny-sexy resemblance.
"What do you care if I make love to Brian as a girl, anyway?" I asked. "What business is it of yourts?"
I wanted to locate a beautiful girl who look like Brian, then go on a nice date
Then they said I was a gay-man -- a devil-may-care leather-clad French motorcyclist who seeks to subdue and dominate Brian MArko in the bedroom. (I thought it unfair to be compare to a biker just because I had on a black leather blazer and black jeans.)
I ignored this and tried to change the subject to the music of Placebo -- "a refuge for wounded hearts." But they did not understand. Then, I heard somebody mention Radio Head (though I am not sure).
"Fucks Radio Head," I said, and slid my glass across the counter into one of the Englishmen. Some of my brandy split upon his polyester tracks jacket.
"Bloody wanker," he called me.
"Wank you," I said back.
The bigger guy laughed. He called me the C word and gave me the "two-fingered salute." Then he came in and tried to pokes me in the eyes with it, but I blocked it with a clever hand.
They just laughed and continued to insult. They said Bryan stinks and that he is a frail sexy girl -- that he is only good for love-making and should otherwise be destroyed. They said the Soulmights are freaks and then even mocked the solemn, regal Osdal, calling him the Swedish Franken-monster of unreal height preportion. They said I was an "old tosser."
And as they gave me this bad information, I gingerly sipped my brandy with the glass held to my lips. That's when one of the guys suddenly pushed my hand, which cause the glass to lightly bange on my front tooth. Immediate, I felt the twinge of pain and spit out a piece of the tooth. The concusion had caused my tooth to chip and breakage.
"You intolerable cock," I said, "you has broken my tooth!"
But this shit-piece guy did not care. He declared that Brian is an "Enigmatic Maxipad who must be erased." Then he took the Placebo brochure I had given him earlier. He crumpled this papers, wrung them, and cast them downwards in disgust.
"No! Stop!" I yelled.
"All your Placebo paper is good for is to whipe your arse with," he laughed.
Mortified, I stoop to pick up the damaged Placebo parcel. And when I was down, the man threw a little kick that benged me in my foreheads. I screamed as loud as possible, trying to copy the nasal yet resonant tone of Brian. And with my shout, I spit the lemon flavor hard candy from between my lips, which shatter upon impact with the floor.
"You have suddenly kicked me in my head!" I yelled at them.
But instead of apologise, the twin brutes spat their English bitters upon my shirt (a vintage '90s piece made of Provence Fabric.) Truly, it was an ugly act.
Both of the Englishman laughed as I held a paper napkin to the stains. My physical pains were somewhat, but my pride -- she was hurt the wurst.
https://preview.redd.it/sd36axqv4yxc1.jpg?width=1024&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=1ed02c0d654d3d39c88ad7a17ed0494982ca205b
As I walked away from the bad guys, they jeered me vivisectionally, heaving me names -- deep, penetration names -- that cut into my very sole. They mocked my heritage, my mather, my father, and my this and that. Then they threw crubbles and emptied paper plastic cups upon my back. The ice cubes went down my shirt and chill my spine. Truly, I felt as though I were back in high school and that my worst enemies had returned to try to route carnage from me flesh once more. The pain was most delicious.
Once totaly alone, in the silence of the bathroom, I tried to gather my thoughts. Truly, I did not know what to do. I tried to focus. For a moment, I consider to use the public shower stall, which stud unused. Although filthy, it offered an inviting, welcome comfort, and I could conseal myself in the warm broth and steams. But as I began to unbutton my shirt, the restroom door slowly open behind me, and in the mirror, I saw the two hooligans enter the bathroom.
I immediately turned to face my enemies, for I knew that they brought violence for me. Truly, they were very pale, evil-looking men. Very ugly with translucent eyes. They sauntered over toward the urinals, laughing and joking to each other. They said horrifix things -- slang cockney stuff I could not comprehend -- but I think it was bad stuff about me.
It was then that I realize somthing: If I fought against these creep enemies of Brian and Placebo, I would redeem myself for the bad that I had done to Brian in the past. Surely, I could do just like in the lyrics for "Hugz:"
"I just wanna conceal myself; I just wanna redeem myshelf."
So, I recalled the basis of "Technique De Combat Française," which is to say, the method of unarmored combat uses by the French Force Spéciale: the elate sholdiers of the country. You see, when I was a kid, I idolize Van Damme, so I wanted to learn karate. My papa was a real rat-bastard, and I am glad he is dead, but the one good things he ever did for me was to take me to the World YMCA in Brussels.
This place had activity for the children, and amonsgt them was a karate course taught by a man, Perez, a Spaniard from France. And this guy was an ex-legionnaire. And for one moths, I studies under this wise French Spaniard and learnt all his combative move technique. And let me tell you, my friends, hese combat methods have saveded my life on several occasion: whether during an attacks in high school; attacks in the discotech during the raves; or when I was attacked by numerous evildoers in the streets of Smolensk. (Though I am a tender man of average height, and with slender bolbs like Brian, I can still taked care of myself in violence moments.)
And so I went to face my villains. I held my hands in the fighter's pase and walked across the bathroom toward my closest foe. I stood before him and said nothing. After a tense moments of silence, he viciously smacked the nose of Chris My Love. I embellished my reaction and swong my head violently.
The guy followed with the satisfying punch deep into my guts. I yelled, trying so hard to sound like Brian's voice. Then boths guys began to punch me down, swotting me to the floor.
On the ground, I tried to do some move -- the windmill technique (somesthing I had learnt in the 2000s from a friend, a skilled break-dance kid from Antwerp). I swong my legs round and tried to trip up the guys with the whips-like sweeps. But it did nothings at all. And the men kicked me in my breast. Then stepped upon my tooth and eyelid.
I challenged them, "Kill me. Do it now, if you dare!"
And them guys, let me tell you, they stepped upon me until i spill off some blood. I screame at the top of my vice, and took it all, like a real toughmen. My hand got crunch, with some rip between the thumb and forefinger. (The fingernail was removed accordingly.) Some drool came from the cuts in the purpled life-flesh. Some fresh blood also wept from the eye at the ende of the sink, inside my pants. But I embraced the blows, just like Brian, who, in his song "B3," endures like torture whilst strapped nude on the Catherine Wheel and whirled about during a public execution most cruel and unjust.
I struggled to stand but could not. I felt as though I were but a bloddied Dracula, down for the Count, trying to arise, but stricken with the morning wood -- a stake through the heart. And when this man finally kicked my face, I gaspe for joy, and I went to rest.
https://preview.redd.it/0y3k4xov5yxc1.jpg?width=1024&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=671e0df902644934dab11023644aa9ed2d472307
Untold moments later, I awoke, undressed, seated on the toilet in my underwear, but indeed without them. I had bean taken for all I was worth -- vintage clothing, wallet, and all. Yet, I was left with twin black-eyed, worthy of the song of Plabceo. My rectum was hurt, too, cause the guy had kicked my buttac. Also, Somtone had stepped upon my privilege, thus snapping my private privilege. The Philippe's octopus was burst open, with the thing loast across the floor.) Truly, I hurt BAD.
Although I lost the fight, I had infect won the battle. For, I stood to my nemeses, took their best, and defended Brian, Placebo, Molko, and Osdal & His Solemates. In the End, it was all wroth it. I knew that everything would be fine again, cause with my act of courage, I had redeemed myself in the eyes of the world of Placebo.
Truly, when I took the manly beatdown, I felt as though Brian Himself were with me, witnessing the ordeal. Though he is presently barricade within his Scottish fortress of mystery and solitude, I do believe that he was watching me with his "third eye."
https://preview.redd.it/x06p8ewz5yxc1.jpg?width=1024&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=ac8a11f4aec49e2d60422bab3c3517c8accc4dbc
Certainly, I say, "yes," he was in fact with me. He shared in my pain and gave me the support all the way. He bestow me the courage and the know-how to fight "The Enemies Of Placebo," the most vile trespasser malefactors.
In my heart, I know that my attackers came to a bad end upon leaving the bar. You cannot do something such as what they did to me, a Placebo fan, and get "away with it." I know that the "Insemination of Brian" came and dealt with the foes. They were probably gloating over what they did to me when, in spirit form, this mustached Phantom of Brian caught with them and tore them apart. (I don't know this for certain, but this is what I believe.)
In closing, thank you for your support. And I do love you all. I feel good to be exonerhated of my wrong doing and thus reintegrated into the Placebo Communituy.
With so damn much love and admiration.
-Ton copain, Chris.

Ich zeige dir, wie du ChatGPT beibringen kannst, in dem von dir gewünschten Schreibstil zu antworten. Sei es jetzt dein eigener oder ein Schreibstil, den du magst.
1. Um zu erfahren, wie ChatGPT einen bestimmten Schreibstil bestimmt, lassen wir ChatGPT einen entsprechenden Text, Blog oder auch Video analysieren. Dazu nutzen wir den folgenden Prompt.

Bitte analysiere den folgenden Text/Blog/Transkript des Videos und beschreibe den Schreibstil, einschließlich Aspekte wie Wortwahl, Satzlänge, Tonalität, Stimmung, rhetorische Figuren und andere auffällige Merkmale: [Den zu analysierenden Text hier einfügen] 

1.b. Wenn du ChatGPT Plus Nutzer bist, dann kannst du auch einfach eine URL zum entsprechenden Text, Blog, Video etc. angeben.

Bitte analysiere den folgenden [Text/Blog/Videos] und beschreibe den Schreibstil, einschließlich Aspekte wie Wortwahl, Satzlänge, Tonalität, Stimmung, rhetorische Figuren und andere auffällige Merkmale: [URL des zu analysierenden Text, Blog, Vidoes einfügen] 

2. Ich habe jetzt einmal meinen Schreibstil aus einem Blogartikel von meinem Reiseblog analysieren lassen. Hier ist das Ergebnis:
https://preview.redd.it/k8qfhdfvj7uc1.png?width=1292&format=png&auto=webp&s=0cd66f3ee7d94bb28cbbb97fe52b85d6fadf0396
3. Mit dieser Analyse kannst du ChatGPT jetzt bitten, den gewünschten Content im entsprechenden Schreibstil zu erstellen. Egal, ob E-Mail, Blogpost, Pressemitteilung, Videoskript oder sonstigen Inhalt.

Bitte schreibe einen [Blogbeitrag/Artikel/Transkript] für ein [Blogartikel, Text, Video] im Stil des zuvor analysierten Textes. Der Inhalt sollte über [Thema deiner Wahl] handeln. 

4. Die Analyse des Schreibstils kannst du dir in einem Dokument abspeichern und bei Bedarf ChatGPT damit 'füttern'. Das geht z. B. über die Custom Instructions.
Wenn du mehrere Schreibstile anlegen willst, kannst du für jeden Schreibstil einen eigenen Chat aufmachen und bei Bedarf auf diese verlinken (mittels Teilen-Link) oder in verschiedenen Dokumenten hinterlegen und diese dann entsprechend hochladen oder die Analyseergebnisse im Prompt mitangeben.
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