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.