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History of the Automatic Teller
XopherMV writes "The line was long and slow, and he became increasingly irritated as his lunch hour dribbled away. All at once, he had a flash of inspiration. 'Golly, all the teller does is cash checks, take deposits, answer questions like "What's my balance?" and transfer money between accounts,' recalls Wetzel, now 75 and still living in Dallas with his wife. 'Wow, I think we could build a machine that could do that!' And with a $4 million go-ahead from Docutel's parent company, that's exactly what he and his engineers did. Read more about the story of the ATM."
Where's the SCO 699$ fee Troll when you don't need him ?
Smile, don't click...
linux is for gaylords
long live freebsd!!!
That is such a retarded show. Is it dead yet?
I read a newspaper article recently that said that the weird thing about Americans is that they're either ridiculously straight-laced, or completely nuts. John seemed to hold up this theory. He was the friend of a friend and when I met him in a bar he was hammered. He claimed not to have been sober since the early Nineties. He had thinning hair, and a permanent mischievous grin.
I ignored him for most of the evening. I was trying to drunkenly seduce one of his female friends, and getting nowhere. But he caught my attention when I heard him yell, "I AM A PROFESSIONAL ROCK THROWER." I stared at him as he finished the story, and asked him to tell it again. It may or may not have been true. But it made me laugh.
John had some friends who were even crazier than him. When they were in college, they decided to go on a road trip and get loaded and laid in every Southern state. To a large extent, they succeeded.
After a few weeks of travelling, they found themselves, drunk and stoned, in a tiny redneck bar somewhere in the hills of some Bible Belt state.
It's a real country bar. As they walk through the door, all conversation stops, and one-hundred bearded, buck-toothed faces turn to stare at them. John walked towards the bar, thinking, "5000 people in this town, and only five different surnames." They ordered a couple of beers, and some chasers, and something to chase the chasers. The rest of the clientele returned to their conversations, but they could occasionally feel a suspicious eye on the back of their neck.
A few hours later, John and his friends were tanked and feeling a lot less cautious. They started whispering redneck jokes under their breaths and laughing raucously. They had consumed a lot of whiskey and snuck back out to the car for some smokes. They were so wasted that they failed to notice that the regulars had decided that they outstayed their welcome.
When it all began, John was sitting at the table. Bob, one of the guys, had eventually admitted that it was his round. He had staggered up to the bar and seemed to have been gone for ages. They didn't even notice, until a booming Southern voice, bloody with rage, cut through the air.
"I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU, MOTHERFUCKER."
The guys slowly manoeuvred themselves around so they could see what was going on, just in time to see this enormous redneck with arms like oak trees. He was about to take a swing at Bob.
Bob, though drunk and stoned, was fast enough to sidestep the punch. While moving, he spun around on his heels, and ran at the door.
John and his friends, being drunk and stoned, thought this was the funniest damn thing they had seen in their entire lives.
They ran out after Bob and the irate redneck. Bob, who was the most unathletic person they knew, was breaking all sprinting records while evading the redneck. He had almost made it to the car when suddenly he stopped, dropped to the ground and came back up with a rock in his hand. The redneck slowed down. Bob stared him dead in the eye and shouted:
"I am a professional rock thrower. Don't make me throw this rock at you."
The redneck swore, and resumed running.
Bob took a classic pitcher's stance, wound up, and hurled the rock straight at the redneck. It hit him square in the nuts. All the observers winced.
Bob grabbed another rock and stood still, panting heavily. The redneck, gasping, slowly picked himself up, muttering obscenities under his breath and began walking away. John and his friends started walking towards their car. The redneck walked over to his pickup and opened the door. Bob sensing danger, shouted again.
"I am a professional rock thrower. Stop right there, or I'll throw another rock."
The redneck dived into the pickup. Bob hurled the rock, neatly shattering the windscreen. A southern voice could be heard yelling "motherfucker!" from inside the truck.
The redneck re-emerged from the tuck, just as Bob was about to pick up another rock. John stopped lau
Am I dead yet?
fucker!!
Very good. You successfully read a post and grasped the point, ALL BY YOURSELF!
Congrats!
The sex in "The Story of O" was WAY hotter.
Bad management trumps ideology - Show the world you want better leadership. http://www.timefornewmanagement.com