Advanced Meat Recovery

That's, like, a thing. It exists. In the world. It’s even got its own acronym, AMR (doi). You could be forgiven for assuming it's a rehab program for Ultimate Fighters. It's not. Nor is it a group of specialists John Wayne Bobbitt keeps on speed dial. It's also not a patented injection to revive comatose rodeo bulls, nor a back-translation of the Mexican for Viagra, nor a proprietary tracking system for bris fallout, nor a means to return dropped hamburger patties to the griddle—that's called a McDonald's Employee. But in mentioning McDonald's, nice segue, you got close.

Advanced Meat Recovery is quote a slaughterhouse process by which residual meat trimmings are extracted from bones and other carcass materials unquote, and why AMR is not at least as well-known as E=MC squared or the Pythagorean Theorem is beyond America’s Leading Blog™. The name of its inventor should enjoy equal billing with Lincoln, Washington, and Hannah Montana in the minds of American schoolchildren, and the Nobel Committee owes a fat apology for its obviously indiscriminate method of bestowing top honors.

Here’s AMR in action:



Now, without that machinery to aid comprehension, your eye might think a Macy’s Parade-sized Porky Pig backed one out in your cat’s litter box. In fact, you’re looking at the birth of multiple Chicken McNuggets. No, I didn’t just misspell Strawberry SofServ. That ain’t fake ice cream. It’s real, actual meat.

Lots of people won’t eat something that begins life as a turkey-sized Porky Pig turd. They’ll wrongly consider themselves above the pictured pink. “Well if THAT’S where Chicken McNuggets come from, I can assure you I have eaten my last McNugget.” I say fuck your attitude. Right in its face. Your knee-jerk, birth-of-a-vegetarian bullshit don’t wash in the Halls of Logic. If you care about animals, don’t you want to make sure we gobble every last edible molecule of an animal that traded its life for human nutrition? Of course you do. Say you’re sorry. Ok. Apology accepted. Welcome back.

See, AMR, glorified, not incriminated, in the photograph above, is the means by which we ensure no animal dies in vain. The ghosts of slain chickens used to hover over a meat worker's shoulder going, “You missed a spot. There, you missed another spot. And there. FUCK, what the fuck did I even die for, motherfucker? If you’re not gonna eat all of me, just amputate my leg or some shit next time. FUCK.” (It sounded like “buk-buk buk, buk-buk,” but if you understood ghost chicken you knew that’s exactly what the fuck they were complaining about. And they had every right to.) Nowadays, thanks to AMR, the ghosts of recently evacuated chicken carcasses don’t gotta waste time checking a meat cutter’s work. They get to fuck around doing the shit chicken heaven was made for while AMR makes sure we get every dead bit. Good for the chickens; good for us.

ALB™ cold droppin the knowledge on the AMR.

You’re welcome.

P.S.: Now if I showed you the running sores that give us Honey Mustard Dippin Sauce, I could totally not blame you for keeping that shit out your mouth.