#animal feed machines

[kitocrystal]

You know why I can’t use “I’d kill everybody in this room and then myself” for this.

[spaceumbredoggos]

A recent interview revealed that Dreamworks has used AI to animate Kung Fu Panda 4.

They claimed that the “broken and distorted bits made the Chameleon shapeshifter more authentic.”

Bitch, I promised I wouldn’t get political in this blog, but when writers, actors, animators, influencers and the entertainment industry is on the line, I have to say something.

Band together to boycott Kung Fu Panda 4.

They could have easily hired a talented animator to animate the broken bits, but no. They blatantly used ai to do this.

Reblog if AI has no place in animation, writing, or the arts in general.

[dani-luminae]

"Oooh I want a Steamboat Willie horror that's a comment on capitalism and -"

Bendy and the Ink Machine. You want Bendy and the Ink Machine.

[v-iv-rusty]

computers and consoles aren't even machines they're like animals to me

[hoofae]

Hey guys I don't want to sound mean and I know everyone likes generic anime twinks (especially if they're free!!) but there are ways you can get access to that other than using software that steals from actual artists without consent. Commissions are so cool.

[gendervapor14]

gen's mini op character playlists

threw together a little list of the characters i write most frequently, and the top three songs i listen to when brainstorming or writing for them! just in case anyone is curious about my strange taste in music 🎶

rosinante ❤️‍🔥

Divine Loser ~ Clem Turner Whose Eye Is It Anyway??? ~ Jhariah Apparition ~ Stealing Sheep

doflamingo 🦩

Daydream In Blue ~ I Monster Greed ~ Stealing Sheep Feed The Machine ~ Poor Man's Poison

bell-mère 🍊

Giver ~ K.Flay This Time ~ Stealing Sheep The Forest ~ Mirah

gladius 💣

Building Steam ~ Abney Park Silent Violence ~ AURORA Black Hole Sun ~ Soundgarden

viola 💃

Heaven Is Here ~ Florence + The Machine Spain ~ Chick Corea Après Moi ~ Regina Spektor

sora (oc) 🎍

The Chain ~ Fleetwood Mac Persephone in the Garden ~ Aidoneus Story Untold ~ Novaa and LIE NING

i hope some of these are enjoyable and strike up some inspiration! ♥

[sanjivaniagromachnery]

[cremach]

Cremach Pvt. Ltd. (CPL) is a Project Engineering Company for Animal Feed plants based in Vadodara. CPL specializes in turnkey projects for animal feed-making machines, such as Cattle Feed plants, Poultry Feed Plant, Fish Feed Plant, and Shrimp Feed Plant.

Our high-quality milling machinery designed for the compound feed industry includes a Hammer Mill, Industrial Mixer, Pellet Mill, Crumbler, Countercurrent Cooler, and Material Handling Equipment. With the experience of over 4 decades, the company excels in the design, fabrication, supply, installation, automation, and commissioning of animal feed process machinery.

Cremach Private Limited 448/1 GIDC Makarpura Vadodara 390010 Reach us on +91 99099 84960

Email: info@cremach.in

Website: https://cremach.in/

[hermmachinery]

SLHS Shaft Paddle Mixer

SLHS Shaft Paddle Mixer Introduction Herm Machinery’s latest dedicated double-shaft paddle mixer has many advantages. These feed mixers are very gentle on the product, have low energy consumption, high capacity, low space requirements, and flexible filling. It can be equipped with multiple atomizing nozzles for liquid addition, which is convenient for maintenance. Herm Machinery’s newest…

[oodextr]

How is the size of the final product controlled in a hammer mill?

In a hammer mill, the size of the final product is primarily controlled by the size and spacing of the hammer mill screens. These screens act as barriers that separate oversized particles from the desired size particles. The final product size is determined by the size of the openings in the screens and the speed at which the hammers rotate. Hammer mills typically consist of a rotor assembly that includes a series of hammers mounted on a spinning shaft. The hammers strike the incoming feed material, causing it to be reduced in size. The finer particles pass through the screens while the larger particles are retained on the screens Animal Feed Machine Suppliers and continue to be crushed. The size and spacing of the screens in a hammer mill are crucial in controlling the final product size. Screens with larger openings allow larger particles to pass through, resulting in a larger final product size. Conversely, screens with smaller openings restrict the particle size, producing a finer final product. The selection of the appropriate screen size is often based on the desired particle size distribution in the final product. The speed at which the hammers rotate also affects the final product size. Higher hammer mill rotational speeds result in smaller particles because the impact forces are greater, leading to more efficient size reduction. Slower rotational speeds, on the other hand, produce coarser particles. Additionally, other factors can influence the final product size in a hammer mill. These include the feed rate, the type of feed material, and the hammer mill design. A higher feed rate generally results in coarser particles, while a lower feed rate produces finer particles. The type of feed material, such as its hardness and moisture content, can also influence the final product size. Similarly, the design of the hammer mill, including the number and arrangement of hammers, can affect the size reduction process and, consequently, the final product size. In summary, the size of the final product in a hammer mill is controlled by the size and spacing of the screens, the rotational speed of the hammers, the feed rate, the type of feed material, and the design of the hammer mill. Achieving the desired final product size requires careful selection and adjustment of these parameters.

[laxmienterprises]

Feed pellet making machine,chattle animal feeding machine,animal feed pellet making machine.

[spaceumbredoggos]

I’ve been on r/boomersbeingfools. Honestly, the amount of boomers addicted to gambling makes it arguably a worse issue than that so called “war on drugs.” Do boomer politicians care? No. They make no laws of regulation to punish any corporation for any shit whatsoever. Boomers don’t deserve to be in charge. There should be age limits in congress.

Yeah, social media addiction is also a huge proven problem. Addictions wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for capitalism leeching off of every person with ads and shortening attention spans. Look at the content farms on YouTube and TikTok. I know I barely have any merit to talk about social media addiction. I’m saying some regulation should exist (obviously not KOSA.) But we gotta get those sweet bucks somehow. Ohoho. Capitalism.

Honestly, every modern day problem can be attributed to capitalism in some way. The system needs to be abolished. REBLOG is capitalism is the true genocide.

[sarroora]

So Netflix is releasing this animated movie but here’s the thing - all backgrounds are done in AI. No actual BG artists were hired or credited for this work. 

And here’s the kicker - I gave them too much credit. I realized that not even the AI users are credited apparently. 

Check this out:

“+Human”. No names, no nothing. 

I know it’s tempting, but please don’t hate-watch this thing. Numbers equal profit even if the people watching are just doing it to mock. Don’t give Netflix and other studios even more incentive to fire more animators and replace them with machines trained on their work and skill. Hilariously, the excuse used is ‘there aren’t enough artists’. That’s not true - there are more than enough artists, but the real issue is that no one wants to pay a living wage. Here’s a short video about the reality of animation in Japan. 

The biggest winners in this equation at the end of the day are the AI infrastructure owners - owners of Midjourney, Stable Diffusion, etc. Do not feed this machine, it creates more monopolization of entire industries, raises a powerful few and dehumanizes the rest.

EDIT: a lot of people are unsure what the anime’s called - it’s The Dog and the Boy.

[ceilidho]

prompt: construction worker ghost and his elementary school teacher neighbour who made the poor decision to start feeding him (nsfw, 2k) [based on this old ask] [on ao3 here]

-

They say not to feed wild animals. 

It makes them grow soft, lazy. Alters their behaviour. Takes an animal previously capable of finding its own food dependent on humans for sustenance. Makes them lose their natural fear of humans and nearly always results in an increase in human-wildlife conflicts as they start to seek out people. It’s a known fact. You can’t go to a park without seeing it plastered on posters in the bathroom and on the sides of the vending machines under the gazebos where you purchase your post-hike iced tea and veggie roll to eat on a nearby bench. 

You know this. So you really don’t know what possessed you to leave a cooler full of sandwiches on your neighbour’s doormat before turning in for the night. 

He wakes up preternaturally early and leaves every morning around four-thirty or five o’clock on the dot. Sometimes in the fog of sleep, you wake to hear the door to the apartment beside yours crack open and slam shut, and then the sound of lumbering footsteps down the hall towards the staircase before that door opens and slams shut too. 

He never comes home before four o’clock at the earliest. That’s around when you come home from work as well, meaning that you sometimes catch him at the door, him covered in grime and reeking of old sweat while you come flouncing down the hall in whatever colourful dress you’d donned that morning, inevitably paint-splattered by the end of the day. Always something appropriate to wear at an elementary school but colourful enough to keep the kids’ eyes and attention on you. 

You’ve caught his name in half-whispered conversations with the property manager, but aside from that, all you know about Simon Riley is that he works in construction. He certainly looks the part: big, calloused hands with blunt, dirt-caked nails and cut up fingers, knuckles always swollen and thick. Body all strength and brawn. Hard hat tucked under his armpit and decorated with countless stickers from old job sites, the same way his forearm is covered in tattoos. 

You’ve even passed by his current job site once or twice—some new condo complex going up by the canal that’s forced you and hundreds of other commuters to leave an extra thirty minutes early to account for the road closures. You pointedly don’t bring that up in conversation though. That would just be rude. 

At least it would be something to talk about though.

It’s not like the two of you talk. You’re not close by any means. Though you moved in a few months ago, you haven’t had much luck mustering up the confidence to squeak out more than a hi to him in passing. When he grunts back something approximating a hello, it’s all you can do not to break your key in the lock when you hurry into your apartment and slam the door shut behind you, heart beating frantically in your chest. 

It’s humiliating. You’re a grown woman and you’ve talked to plenty of men before. You’ve dated plenty of men before. Just because this one speaks in monosyllables and stares at you with an intensity that makes your stomach churn and your palms grow sweaty doesn’t change anything. Just because this one is built like a redwood with wrists thick enough that you’d need both hands to wrap around doesn’t make him any different than any other person.

And yet, when Simon asks you for your name on a rainy June afternoon after you’ve come in after him for a change only to find him sifting through letters at the mailbox, you garble out something that sounds nothing like your name before scurrying up the stairs to your flat.

It’s humiliating. It’s humid outside and your dress is sticking to all the wrong places (namely, your nipples and the inside of your thighs when the skirt swishes between your legs with each stride) and now you’ve made an ass of yourself in front of the only hot guy in your building. There are serial arsonists with more charm than you. 

So maybe the sandwiches are an apology letter or an olive branch. Or maybe it just makes your heart race to think of Simon opening up the cooler and finding four wax paper-wrapped sandwiches tucked neatly over ice packs. 

All you know is that when you step out of your apartment the next morning, the cooler is empty on your doormat, the lid propped open. He must have taken them with him. 

You smile. A job well done. Apology served fresh, with cucumber slices in the middle. 

The problem starts when you don’t leave him another cooler full of sandwiches on his doormat the next day. 

You didn’t consider that he might think you’d make it a habit. Perhaps that’s partially on you for not leaving a note on the cooler the first time to explain that it was just a one-off; just a way to apologize for being less than chipper around him. But instead of shrugging it off, you come home after a long day to find him standing right outside your apartment, arms crossed over his chest, thick biceps straining against his sweat-stained shirt. 

“Open the door,” Simon commands, nostrils flaring as he glares down at you. He jerks his head towards your door when you just frown, not following. “Been starving here waiting for you to show up.”

You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. You’re at a loss for words, never mind that your whole job involves talking. He leaves you speechless though. 

Simon doesn’t move when you step close enough to unlock the door. You try to keep your body angled away so as not to brush up against him, but it’s inevitable. He doesn’t move when the door opens either, forcing you to squeeze by him. 

He goes straight to the kitchen and drags a chair out, letting it scrape across the floor like men always do before taking a seat. You follow after him nervously, apprehensive at having a man in your space. Not just a man, but Simon Riley. It feels sacrilege—not like he has no right being in your space, but you can’t imagine him here, sitting at your tiny dining room table like he comes over for dinner every Sunday. 

When he catches you standing under the archway to the kitchen just staring at him, he barks, “Well?”

That has you scurrying over to the fridge to pull out the cold cuts and pickled red onions. There’s a loaf of bread already on the counter, the bag twisted and tucked underneath because you had to leave in a rush this morning. You don’t know half of what you pile on the sandwiches, but whatever you serve him must satisfy him because Simon digs in with gusto, finishing the plate off in only a few bites while you wash the cutlery in the sink. You watch him out of the corner of your eye the whole while.

He leaves not too long after that, only a light warning for you to not miss tomorrow’s lunch before heading back over to his own apartment. You don’t even get a word in edgewise. 

It becomes something of a routine after that and not one you have any control over. Every night before bed, you leave him a cooler full of sandwiches and other things like cut up fruit or slices of cheese on his doormat, and every afternoon you rock up to him waiting on your doorstep, demanding to be let in. 

He takes to giving you a wet kiss before he leaves, all tongue and his fingers curled around the nape of your neck, holding you in place. When you try to cover his mouth with your hand, he nips at your fingers until you move them and let him slip you some tongue. 

The day you make him a casserole for supper, he bends you over the back of your couch and eats you out. Simon eats like a man starving, glutting himself on the wetness between your legs, licking even over the furl of your asshole and chuckling under his breath when you squeal and flail, your toes just brushing against the floor. 

In the aftermath, you sit panting in his lap while he eats. He gets up only briefly to get the bowl of strawberries and cream you left chilling in the fridge before lifting you up and putting you right back in his lap. You stare bleary-eyed when he holds a finger covered in cream up to your lips.

“Clean me up, pet,” he says, then watches you with half-lidded eyes while you lick his finger clean. 

He makes you suck his fingers too, to keep things even. He does it when you’re angled half off the bed, thick digits stuffed down your throat until your eyes leak big, fat tears that he licks away, hungry for those too. The man is always hungry, always keen to fill his belly. 

The arrangement continues on long enough to become normal, even routine. Simon shows up at your door every day after work waiting to be fed, and then makes you come a couple times before he leaves, a little thank you to repay you for the food. He never really says all that much when he comes around, not a conversationalist of a man. His preference is to eat, fuck, and leave, which you’re happy to accommodate, still too tongue-tied yourself to broach a real conversation. 

That’s all before he starts helping himself to your bed for a quick nap after a big supper. Then for naps that turn into a full night’s sleep, snoring like a chainsaw under the covers with you tucked under his arm, naked breasts pressed against his side, keeping you awake most of the night until you pass out somewhere around one A.M. 

Just as you suspected, Simon gets up at around four or five to be at the jobsite on time, but at your place, he gets up a bit earlier to help himself to breakfast. He doesn't even bother waking you up, just turns you over onto your tummy and spreads your legs before sinking his dick into where you're still stretched out from the night before. If you wake up or squirm, he just leans down and murmurs, “S'alright, pet…just need a pick me up before work. Go back to sleep, you’re okay,” and ruts between your thighs until he comes inside you and leaves you all wet in bed with one last messy kiss to your temple. 

The door slams shut on his way out. 

Because you feed him, he keeps coming back. The workday passes in a blur: attendance, a spelling test, recess, maths in the afternoon, and then you’re driving home in the same daze that has you slamming on the brakes before rear ending an old woman who stopped two cars behind the truck at the redlight ahead. 

You’re home earlier than him for a change, so you unlock the door quickly while there’s still a chance to avoid him. No such luck. When Simon turns up, he pounds on the door until you let him in. And you do. 

It’s a wonder you haven’t come apart at the seams, horny and pent up after this morning. You were too sleepy to come after all, rode hard and put away wet. Still, you flit nervously around the apartment, looking everywhere but at him. 

He always smells rich after working all day in the sun, like sweat and dirt. It's not a particularly nice smell, but it still kind of gets you going. He goes for a shower and then collapses on the couch after, beckoning you over to you crawl into his lap and grind yourself on his thigh because he knows of course. Simon can probably smell it on you, the ache. He shushes you when you whine about it, big hands fitting around your hips and pressing you down until your clit rubs deliciously against the muscle of his thigh and your head goes cloudy, cheek mushed against the pillow of his chest. 

When you come, Simon tips your chin up with his knuckle and murmurs, “Knickers off, love. Haven’t got my fill.”

He feeds you your own slick from his fingers when he kneels on the floor in front of the couch, your legs draped over his shoulders. Your fingers scratch helplessly over shorn blond hair, buzzed almost to the scalp. It’s prickly under your fingertips. 

Simon’s a messy eater. Your slick dribbles down his lips and glistens on his chin. It makes the blood roar under your skin, feverishly hot. 

“Please, Simon,” you whine, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “It hurts.”

You feel his lips quirk up against the folds of your pussy, the flat of his tongue running up the seam and flicking over your clit. He chuckles when your hips jerk. “Greedy aren’t you, pet? Didn’t even say thank you for getting on my knees.”

“You didn’t make me come!”

His voice borders on mocking when he coos, “Poor little thing. It’s gonna be a lot longer ‘til she gets to come if you don’t say thank you.”

Your brain goes staticy, fingers twitching on his scalp. His words echo back in your head. It’s rubbish, is what it is. All this time and he’s never said thank you once for the countless meals you’ve fed him. Indignation bubbles up in you, rising to the surface like fat on the cream, and you raise a hand to rub the tears from your eyes, a harsh rebuke on the tip of your tongue.

The protest dies on your lips when he meets your gaze. It’s hungrier than anything you’ve ever seen. Whatever animal lives under his skin stares back at you with black eyes, drool leaking from its jowls. It’s mindless, intent only on slaking its hunger. Filling its empty belly. And it is not afraid of you anymore. It knows you’ll feed it until it’s full. It knows you won’t let it go hungry anymore. 

So, always leery of the bigger animal in the room, you mumble out a chest-thick, “Thank you,” and shiver when he grins. 

There’s a reason they tell you not to feed strays. They often come back for more.

[vinglobgreentech]

Agriculture Equipments Manufacturers in India | Farm Equipments | Garden Equipments - Vinglob Greentech

Agriculture Equipments Manufacturers in India | Farm Equipments | Garden Equipments - Vinglob Greentech

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For More Information

https://www.vgtindia.in/products.php

A/2, Bharat Small Industrial Estate, Pin Code :- 382445

B/H. Gujarat Offset, Vatva, Ahmedabad,

7984030141 | 9909793721

vinglobgreentech2016dd@gmail.com

visiongreentechindia@gmail.com