Prøvde med chatgpt, men den er jo så politisk korrekt, så dette er det beste jeg fikk ut av den. This epistle spins the yarn of a miffed fisherman who got slapped with a decree from the Fisheries Directorate to bolt on an electronic doohickey (0:10) so the rescue squad could keep tabs on his vessel if he ever found himself up the creek without a paddle out on the briny deep. (0:18) What follows is the fisherman's salty retort to the Directorate, having been told to rig up this gizmo in his boat, (0:26) laid out in full, unvarnished glory. (0:29) Now I'm livid, truly fuming. Blasted hell, what cursed muck. (0:34) Who in the seven seas dreamt up this infernal contraption? (0:39) It's bloody impossible to fiddle with this blasted thing week in, week out. (0:44) A man's got better things to do than twiddle and tweak with this demon-spawned gadget. (0:51) Can you, snug in your landlubber boots, enlighten me what's the point (0:57) of these iron clamps standing there, screeching and howling, belting out all manner of hellish noises and flashing like the devil at a disco (1:04) with a tangle of wires and buttons sprouting like seaweed you trip over at every turn. (1:09) If I could only get my hands on one of you, you blasted support desk sea serpents (1:15), I'd swear on Poseidon's trident I'd keelhaul you to where you belong, you cursed offspring of a sea hag's nightmare. (1:23) Don't you dare come here and dribble bilge water to folks, telling me what to stuff into your accursed helpline. (1:30) If it were up to me, you'd be on the Arctic floes, sweet-talking the walruses, alongside those soft-bellied southerners (1:37) then you could sit there and fiddle with your configurations till you're blue in the face, so far up your own aft ends (1:44) you'd be spouting nonsense the next time you try to take a leak. (1:50) And after you're done with that, I'd personally come and wipe your memory, (1:56) installing your gears so backwards you'd be sneezing out serial numbers in Morse code. (2:03) And if you still found life interesting after that, I'd unplug your flight (2:08) so far into the darkest abyss I could find (2:12) you'd reek of brimstone till the end of your days. (2:16) By the stormy wrath of the deepest, blazing pit of Davy Jones' locker (2:20), when I get my hands on just one of you. (2:24) I've scuttled fleets of haddock poachers in my day. (2:28) I'll cram all that accursed junk into a crate and send it on a one-way trip to the murky depths. (2:34) I be damned if I want it. (2:36) So you can sit there and twiddle your thumbs alone with your blasted phone in the darkest corner of Neptune's locker.
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Hahaha🤣Dette er nordlending fra helvete. Fantastisk 🤘
Ej og en liten gruppe satt å leste denne høgt i går ettermiddag. Fantastiske greier. Elsker sinte nordlendinger
Fy og faen, snakk om fargerikt språkbruk! 😂
Fantastisk 🤣
HEHEHE..D E BRA AT D E NÅNN SÅMM SEJ I FRA I KLARTÆKST KA MAIINJ MEINE OM UBUKELI BYRÅKRATI
Minner om min gamle far. Når han blei steike førbainna. xD
Eg e helt enig med deg også
Hahahaha (y)
Mildt sagt fresk epistel det derran
😂😂😂
Denne burde abselutt vært oversatt til engelsk
Prøvde med chatgpt, men den er jo så politisk korrekt, så dette er det beste jeg fikk ut av den.
This epistle spins the yarn of a miffed fisherman who got slapped with a decree from the Fisheries Directorate to bolt on an electronic doohickey (0:10) so the rescue squad could keep tabs on his vessel if he ever found himself up the creek without a paddle out on the briny deep. (0:18) What follows is the fisherman's salty retort to the Directorate, having been told to rig up this gizmo in his boat, (0:26) laid out in full, unvarnished glory. (0:29) Now I'm livid, truly fuming.
Blasted hell, what cursed muck. (0:34) Who in the seven seas dreamt up this infernal contraption? (0:39) It's bloody impossible to fiddle with this blasted thing week in, week out. (0:44) A man's got better things to do than twiddle and tweak with this demon-spawned gadget.
(0:51) Can you, snug in your landlubber boots, enlighten me what's the point (0:57) of these iron clamps standing there, screeching and howling, belting out all manner of hellish noises and flashing like the devil at a disco (1:04) with a tangle of wires and buttons sprouting like seaweed you trip over at every turn. (1:09) If I could only get my hands on one of you, you blasted support desk sea serpents (1:15), I'd swear on Poseidon's trident I'd keelhaul you to where you belong, you cursed offspring of a sea hag's nightmare.
(1:23) Don't you dare come here and dribble bilge water to folks, telling me what to stuff into your accursed helpline.
(1:30) If it were up to me, you'd be on the Arctic floes, sweet-talking the walruses, alongside those soft-bellied southerners (1:37) then you could sit there and fiddle with your configurations till you're blue in the face, so far up your own aft ends (1:44) you'd be spouting nonsense the next time you try to take a leak. (1:50) And after you're done with that, I'd personally come and wipe your memory, (1:56) installing your gears so backwards you'd be sneezing out serial numbers in Morse code. (2:03) And if you still found life interesting after that, I'd unplug your flight (2:08) so far into the darkest abyss I could find (2:12) you'd reek of brimstone till the end of your days.
(2:16) By the stormy wrath of the deepest, blazing pit of Davy Jones' locker (2:20), when I get my hands on just one of you. (2:24) I've scuttled fleets of haddock poachers in my day. (2:28) I'll cram all that accursed junk into a crate and send it on a one-way trip to the murky depths.
(2:34) I be damned if I want it. (2:36) So you can sit there and twiddle your thumbs alone with your blasted phone in the darkest corner of Neptune's locker.
🤣🤣
😂
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