From a guy called Worriedman on pickled eggs.

Ah, revenge pills!

When I first left TX, and came to work for my present firm, they had a project going in Tulsa, OK for Whirlpool. PM in charge was not a real go getter, and the completion date was fast approaching, with lots of work left to go. Home office assigned me to pinch hit and get it back on track. Owners Rep. was a prick, (loved to hear himself talk), and his two henchmen no better. Nit picky bastids who could read more into a contract than a group of Chicago lawyers. I circled the wagons, spent a lot of time on the ground, and pulled off the completion date. Punch list meetings whowever, were a blood bath, Owner wanting to add a bunch of “nice to have’s” at the end, we had several serious discussions of what was in the contract and what was not. It got a little personal.

Final inspection of the press tunnel was scheduled for a Friday. Have to set the stage, 20’ wide, 22’ deep tunnel where the presses that stamped out the parts for the dishwashers were anchored, and all the scrap fell down and was conveyed to the end. Lots of structure, lots of noise.

Thursday night, the young supt. and I went to dinner and I got prepped up. A dozen pickled eggs, a couple of Big Dog pickled sausages, large bowl of pinto beans, with a side of lima beans, a double dose of iron tablets, all washed down with a large quantity of beer. Explained to him my tack for getting through the inspection quick, he thought I had lost my mind.

Next day as we entered the tunnel, all that clackity clack going on, you could barley hear the guy standing next to you shout. Every bolt was checked for torque, foundations measured for levelness. I told my supt. to watch and learn from a Pro, sidled up to ol’ Bob and let one rip, covered by the press sounds. They all looked at each other for a second, discomfort apparent, but nobody said anything. This tunnel ran about 600’ across the factory, we hade figured that “Windy” Bob would make the inspection last at least 4 hours. Presses were spaced 60’ apart; at each location they would set up their laser and begin to take measurements. Once I got past the first slurry of pickled eggs and down to the iron tablets and Big Dogs, the aroma was staggering. My supt. was in tears, who could say the real reason, whether from the looks on the faces of the Whirlpool big wigs, or from the olfactory stress he was undergoing. I would lag behind the group till battery was charged again, and just prior to feeling like I was going to explode, would catch up to make a point, and would chit down my leg and wink at my supt. Repeat!

Bob asked if I smelled anything untoward, I said no, nothing out of the ordinary, maybe there was dead rat somewhere. told him the equipment setting crew provided by Whirlpool tended to be pigs and leave their garbage from lunch laying around, resulting a rat infestation, and we had put out some poison.

About a third of the way down the tunnel, Bob opined that we needed to check and see if we had accounted for all the hands, he was right sure that dead rats could not be producing the stench, and there must be a wetback or two sandwiched among the foundations. Had an old guy with them, never forget him, Errol Van Buskirk, he was way up in years, a little frail to boot, we had to help him out at one of the emergency shafts, he threw up and nearly passed this vale of tears after one of the more serious applications of flatulence.

Being the set up of presses and conveyors was somewhat repetitive, the powers that be decided we had seen enough, we were less than a third of the way through the tunnel. Bob allowed as to how this was all pretty mundane, and any irregularities could be handled in the Warranty period anyways. He did suggest that we up the exhaust fan CFM, saying that there were not enough air exchanges occurring, and that he felt the maintenance staff need to add the press pit to their “confined space’ log. Van Buskirk suggested perusal by cadaver dogs.