Friday, February 24, 2012

Falling in the boxolator

There is way too much to cover right now.  For one thing, it might not be wise to post about the mutiny I have in the works when the boat people have access to my stuff.  So, before anyone gets too excited and hauls me away, I'm at least 20% kidding about it.  I mean, come on.  Could I really find a place in China to sell the fish?  And could I really get wenches on any number of islands in the Western Pacific to come along for Admiral J-Cut's Privateering party?  And do you really think I'd scrap the millions of pounds of steel and the factory on board in Indonesia for pennies on the dollar and still walk away with millions?  It's preposterous.  I'd have to gain the friendship and trust of at least ten crew members and take advantage of their military training.  I'd also have to learn where the button for the gps transponder in the wheelhouse is labeled 'ACS'.  There's no way it could happen.

Fun thing about this mutiny is that it had a little mutiny of it's own.  My peeps decided they had some ideas of their own.  Wanted to turn my mutiny into some Mickey Mouse club shenanigans.  Ain't gonna happen.  And then, when I had the factory guy make me a steel eye patch-yes, I made my own of a colored and cut paper cup and strap for some ear plugs and like five people copied it-my number two turned on me.  Tom, the Swede who fabricated this thing of beauty gave it to Yeoman Tiny to give to me.  Well, once Tiny held the reigns of power he started to get a little power drunk.  Sigh.  So, I gave promotions all around.  I was captain J Cut, named after the machine that beheads the fish.  In order to mollify Tiny, however, I had to promote him to captain Tiny.  So I'm admiral J Cut now.  Whatever.  It's not like it's the United States Navy or anything.  My director of Piracy is a Somalian.  Enough said.  Lord Pillage is a former cage fighter and Commander Tor, named after my dad, is a former Air Force MP.  His training should come in handy.  Captain Tiny is a Tongan who comes in around 325 and has hair halfway down his back.  Think Troy Palamalu on steroids about five years out of his playing career.  Only bigger.

The mutiny is on the back burner for now, even though there is dissention in the ranks and the timing is probably about right.  We're gassing up for some fishing and could probably go anywhere in the Pacific.  But don't worry about that.  The boxolator is the reason for the nightmares tonight.

We are doing offload, which is about as bad as it gets.  Fact.  The way it works is we take the 800 metric tons, or roughly 2 million pounds of frozen fish and load it onto a machine.  The machine is called the boxolator.  It's a vertical conveyor belt on steroids with metal paddles that sends the boxes up and out of the boat.  It's a fucking death trap.  It sounds like a rabid lawn mower with a loose blade.  I fell in.  And you're not even supposed to stick your hand near it.  I fell in it.  I then commando rolled out of it with the quickness of...I don't know.  Seriously though, In one deft motion, I fell, rolled, crapped myself, hit my steel toes on the paddle, and got out.  Took maybe a half second.  For sure not safe.  At all.  That's all I got.  That and everyone who comes into my freezing domain quits.  The lone girl is now my freezer buddy.  Poor thing.  She doesn't stand a chance.  She's actually pretty tough so we'll see.  Still, she doesn't stand a chance.

And for those of you keeping track, of the nearly two million pounds of fish that was in the hold, I put like half of it there.  My hands look like I tried to finger blast a garbage disposal.  Still here.  No big whoop.

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