What the fuck, HBO. I give you your best show since the Sopranos, and you shit in my face. I've been silent until now, but I can hold my tongue no longer. Season five of Game of Thrones has some big changes from my beloved book series. Jamie's going to Dorne, huh? Well that's just splendid. Sansa's going to marry Ramsey Bolton? Yeah, that makes all kinds of sense. What's next? Is Optimus Prime going to show up on one of Danny's dragons? How could've you gotten rid of Coldhands? Or Aegon! It's like you are trying to condense and streamline all the great characters I've written, all one-thousand, eight-hundred, and eighty-seven of them. Apparently, that's too many characters for a TV show to handle. I should've sold the rights to Starz.
Some will claim that it's my fault that HBO is digressing from the books. Hey, assholes, it takes awhile to write this crap. I'm rich, I'm fat, and there are a lot of video games for me to play instead of slaving away on the computer. To be honest, I've kind of dug myself a hole that I can't climb out of. The goddamn plot line is a mess. And I know you guys are tired of Davos, the Greyjoys, and Bran. Hell, I am too. I can barely maintain consciousness when I write those chapters. But there's no way to trim the fat. That would go against every writing principle I adhere to. Fantasy novels have to be big and bloated. First fantasy novels are recommended to be between 100,000 and 115,000 words. My shortest novel, Game of Thrones, was 298k. My longest was A Storm of Swords at 424 thousand. The Song of Ice and Fire series, together, equals one-million, seven-hundred and seventy-thousand words. Do you get it now, people? These books don't just write themselves. You try finding an editor willing to edit one of these monstrosities.
HBO could've waited, like the rest of you, but I guess they didn't want to risk losing viewers of their billion-dollar television series. Like, whatever HBO. Go ahead and fuck everything up. Make Podrick the king of Westeros. Resurrect King Joffrey from the dead. Marry Sansa to Cersei and let them scissor their problems out. Just don't blame me for any of this. I'll be busy working on The Winds of Winter. Or maybe not. Maybe I'll be eating Cheetos out of a hooker's bunghole. I might as well not finish any of this shit if you're just going to fuck it up.