Monday, February 15, 2010
Anyone who knows me knows that I like my chicken separated manually. In fact, It’s probably the one thing you’d walk away knowing about me if You and I were share an elevator. I doubt we’d even have to converse.
Now don’t get me wrong, I like robots and most things they contribute to society. I especially like how they scare old people. But I must draw the line when it comes to the mechanical separation of poultry.
Maybe I’m only saying this because my best friend died tragically in a chicken-separating machine at age 16. Or perhaps my opinion has been skewed somewhat because my college sweetheart left me for a guy who made millions by inventing a machine that separates chicken. Or maybe I’m biased because I am the child of a Guatemalan chicken separator and I saw first-hand how robots can take chicken-separating jobs away from hard-working, chicken-hating Americans. Especially the Guatemalan ones.
Tearing chickens apart by hand was probably the only thing my father really liked. Sure, he enjoyed going to bullfights on acid, and he was quite fond of black dress socks with compromised elasticity, but nothing brought him joy like his craft. Of course he "liked" his family, but he didn’t “like us like us.” At least not the way he liked his work.
The invasion of robots into the chicken separating industry tore my family apart like a chicken caught in some sort of device designed to mechanically separate it.
It’s tragic, I tell you.