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It's Nice To Be Able To Say Fuck!


EWolfe
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I was once told that in medieval times one was required to obtain permission from the King to fornicate in his castle. Once the necessary permission was granted one would hang a sign on the door indicating the rooms occupants were in fact, "Fornicating Under Consent of King" or F.U.C.K.ing.

 

looks like it's a fucking myth

Edited by Peakpimp
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I was working at a wine distributor in Issaquah, and I worked a deal with the company mechanic to do some work on a rig I was buying from the company...all very round-about dealings. I said I would buy him lunch, the guy ate 5 big macs,2 cheeseburgers, 3 fries, 2 shakes and 3 apple pies.

A McDumbald's meal cost me $30, the bastard! Said he got free meals by doing the "eat the steak and it's free!" roadhouse challenges.

 

He looked at my car for a bit, then I asked him how bad it was.

 

"The fuckin' fucker's fuckin' fucked!"

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I used to design robotic assembly lines. You feed the robots bulk parts in devices called vibratory bowl feeders, which use a radial sawtooth wave vibration to move parts up a ramp and out of the bowl.

 

Anyway, the bowls are stainless, all custom, and welded by guys who also build choppers and hotrods. It's steadier work.

 

I checked the first bowl drawing, and it had red "Fuck You" stamped all over it. They all did. That was their company's official format for redlining.

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I took a job for a few months back in the 80s at this plastic part production plant. They had these crazy huge stamp machines that would spit out some crazy part. I remember working on a machine that spit out kayak helmets. I'd have to take a knife to each one and trim off bits of excess plastic from each helmet. They had these Terminator like plastic sunglasses too, and all kinds of other crap.

 

Everybody working at the factory refered to the place as the Plastic Fucktory.

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When I was a young engineer, I took my first trip to the plastics shop (injection molding machines, mostly); the 'rough' end of our little corporate family. I opened the door, and nobody was there; just untended machines. I rounded the corner and there they all were in a semi circle of burn-scarred, wife beater wearing mold operators (and I'm just talking about the women here). In the center was a stripper, doing what she came for, with a video camera off to the side.

 

It was someone's birthday.

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