Fantastic new gun product

[nathangdad]

Note: I am not connected with the firm in this thread. I am posting it as a service.

Most people have never heard of Kano Labs but they have sold to 480 of the top 500 Fortune 500 firms. They have a new nano-molecule (incredibly small) rust dissolver and lubricant. KROIL has molecules so small they will fit in between items as close together as one-millionth of an inch. KROIL disolves all rust and leaves the metal lubricated. You can buy it in a pressurized can or bulk for soaking parts. This is great for gun restorers and gunsmiths. KANOlaboratories.com

Note: for some reason on Saturday I got an error messge then suddenly this thread appeared twice. I did not intentionally double submit.

Note: The KROIL name is not new to the marketplace but the product is listed in this month's Construction Equipment magazine product spotlight as "a new scientific discovery" so perhaps it has experienced some type upgrade.

[two-70]

Areo-kroil is an awesome product, does wonders on stuff that is rusted up or froze up

[DWARREN123]

Actually been around for awhile. It is pretty good stuff.

[Cyrano]

Has anyone used the Penephite graphited penetrating oil that suppsoedly dissolves rust and lubricates at the asme time?

[Seabeescotty]

Am I seeing double? Got to get my eyes Checked!

[nathangdad]

Hello to Cyrano - I cannot comment on this particular product but some people
do not use graphite as it is supposed to build up deposits that
trap dirt and grit. Perhaps people with other experiences will
respond to your question.

[Cyrano]

We used a graphite grease in the Merchant Marine we referred to as "baby shit." The stuff was silvery and penetrated cargo whips and lashing wires readily. We also used it to lubricate twistlocks for cargo containers, and almost anything that didn't require a grease gun to lubricate it. We liked it a great deal because it stayed fluid in cold weather down into single digits, unlike most petroleum-based greases. Don't ask me the proportions or what the base grease was.

The stuff was pernicious; it clung and it stained any kind of cloth irreparably. One of my more amusing memories was when I was the Second Officer in the old Export Courier. It took place in 1980, just after the management team that had run American Export Lines into bankruptcy somehow managed to seize control of Farrell Lines, which was forced by the Federal government to buy AEL from the bankruptcy court.

One major difference between the bean-counters who had run AEL and the senior management of Farrell was that in Farrell Lines, you did not make it to the senior management team unless you held either a Master's licence and had sailed in command; or you held a Chief Engineer's license and had sailed as Chief Engineer. All the MBAs and such were stabilized at high middle management level; they could go no farther and had no say in setting company policy.

A result of the Farrell family's approach to senior management was that anything the shipboard personnel wanted that they could justify, they got, no questions asked. When the AEL bean-counters got control, they began to treat the shipboard personnel like dirt, just the way they'd done the AEL seafarers. For example, when I requisitioned spares for the gyrocompass including a pint of mercury for the mercury ballistic, they cut the quantity of spares in half and dropped the mercury entirely. The Chief Mate requisitioned 30 snatch blocks that we had to have in order to work containerized cargo with the "swinging dick" rig of faux 20-ton jumbo booms at each hatch the AEL stiffs had ordered installed (a system Farrell had tried in the late 1960s and rejected as too slow and inefficient when compared to real jumbo booms and properly married yard-and-stay rigs; but the AEL MBA-holding jackasses refused to accept the Farrell reports). The bean-counters delivered FOUR snatch blocks, barely enough for ONE hatch. We had six hatches in the Courier. Their rationale? "You can move them from hatch to hatch as you need them."

A snatch block weighs 100 pounds. It is the size of a utility trailer tire. YOU try moving four of those around quickly! The business school types had no clue how things are done aboard ship.

Anyway, you get the idea. We had to improvise, adapt and try to overcome all sorts of problems we never had seen while dealing with Farrell's senior management, who were sea officers themselves and knew and understood our difficulties. The Courier had had the best cargo efficiency rating of the sixteen or so C-4 type general cargo ships Farrell Lines had built themselves or acquired as a result of the forced buy-out for the past year. We went from having the best rating to having the worst in the fleet in just three months. The ship's officers, understandably, were livid over this drop in status caused by a bunch of incompetent fools in the home office who would not give us what we needed to do our jobs.

The senior rear echelon motherfuckers in New York were curious about the sudden change as well. They flew a vice president (first class, of course) to Palermo to meet us and find out what the cause was.

So one morning this arrogant jackass with a Harvard MBA and an attitude in a $2,000 Armani suit showed up and attempted to carry on as he fondly believed his company rank entitled him to. The Old Man ripped him a new asshole in a thirty-minute shouting match, threw him out of his cabin and told him to go talk to the Chief Mate.

Somewhat chastened, Mr. MBA went to talk to The Mate, who in a merchant ship is also the Cargo Officer. The Mate let him have it with both barrels, pointing out with exquisite scarcasm that we had been struggling along for months with a tenth of the gear we needed to work the ship properly; that he had an entire filed of requisitions that had come back marked, "Rejected - Unnecessary for Ship,' including some with Mr. MBA's signature on them; and that while our field expedients worked after a fashion, they did not work a hundredth as well as the gear we desperately needed but did not have 'because it cost too much.'

Right about then I came into The Mate's office after tools we kept there, including a hydraulic wire cutter light enough to lug up and down the ladders in the hatches. The Mate introduced me to Mr. MBA, whom I could tell was not impressed by the officer in filthy khakis in front of him. (I'd been on watch for eleven straight hours working the deck because we were shorthanded and I was not impressed with rear echelon motherfuckers anyway.) I told The Mate what I needed and why; he waved me to the gear locker and then said, "You wanted to know why our cargo rate is so slow? The Second here can show you. Second, why don't you take Mr. MBA here down Number Four and show him?" with a significant look I knew how to interpret after four months with him.

"Of course, Mate; I'd be happy to. This way, please."

I took the tools and Mr. MBA down to the bottom of Number Four hatch by the dirtiest route I knew. (The Mate had not offered him a boiler suit to wear and he was too ignorant to know why he'd want one.) I positioned him alongside a couple of lashing wires coated in baby shit and went out into the square to re-rig the drag wire that had parted, that we were using to pull a 20 foot cargo container on tracks out to where we could get a spreader bar on it to lift it out of the hatch. It was pure serendipity that as the box neared the end of the tracks, the plug in the eye of the drag wire ripped out of the cheap frame of the superannuated American Export Lines cargo container and flew back toward the place where I'd parked Mr. MBA and hit the container with a BOOM and scared him into stumbling backwards, tring to grab the lashing wire, falling over it and then landing on the dirty steel deck.

After I'd made sure we could get the spreader onto the box and lift it out of the hatch, I went to Mr. MBA and made sure he was okay. I then explained to him, in the same exquisite grade of sarcasm employed by The Mate, that the reason we were moving only four or five boxes per hatch per hour was we had to do at least one pull just to get the box out to where we could get the cargo hook onto it; and to do that we had to use drag wires running off the disused topping lift winches not employed on the "swinging dick" boom; and to get the wires where we needed them to be we had to use blocks; and that these should be snatch blocks we can open and close to quickly move the drag wire; but since we did not HAVE enough snatch blocks, we had to make do with spare cargo wire fairlead blocks that weighed 200 pounds each that could not be opened or shut, but had to have the wire pulled all the way through the sheave before we could reposition them; and to do that we had to unshackle the cargo plug or cargo hooks because we didn't have enough plugs, either, so the wire would feed; and if the wire snapped behind the eye in the wire as it had on almost all the drag wires, we had to stop and unfasten the three 'dog bites' (aka wire clips) we had to use to make up a wire loop to shackle the plugs into before we could pull the wire through. And to set up for the next pull, AFTER getting the 200 pound fairlead blocks into the correct position, we had to reverse the process; and all that depended on the cargo shackles we were forced to use because we didn't have anywhere near enough SAFETY shackles tested for a safe working load of 20 tons to use in setting up the pull NOT warping and jamming so they had to be hacksawed loose and replaced. And this presumed that the crappy Export Lines containers would actually stand up to being pulled in their tracks on the deck without the plugs ripping out of the frames or the boxes warping and breaking open, because the boxes were by Farrell Lines safety standards unfit for use in the liner trade.

"And that, Mr. MBA, is why we have the worst cargo record in the fleet for the past four months. If you want us to get out of last place, the next time we send in a batch of requisitions, fill them immediately and fill them in full. Ship's officers don't ask for stuff just for the fun of it. And now if you will excuse me, I must lay up to the quarterdeck so my relief can find me and I can get him up to speed before he takes over the deck."

I then disappeared up the nearest ladder and left Mr. MBA to find his own way out. He emerged about ten minutes later, covered in baby shit, rust, grime and hydraulic fluid from the hydraulic hatch pumproom he had emerged in. His oh-so-expensive Armani suit was completely ruined, and every man in the ship enjoyed a quiet laugh as he slunk down the gangway back to the hired car that had brought him in regal majesty to our gangway.

The next time the Courier sent in a batch of requisitions, including a req for a pint of mercury for the gyrocompass, thirty-six snatch blocks and one hundred 20-ton safety shackles and some special drag straps we had designed for our cargo gear, we got them, no questions asked.

Amazing what baby shit will lubricate, isn't it?