Q: A chicken factory?
A: Yes. We mass produce New Zealand's finest poultry, packaging and preparing it for shipment to a grocery store near you.*
*[Near is a relative term. The grocery store is near compared to Pluto, which isn't a planet anymore because Science decided it's not big enough to have grocery stores. I blame Charles Darwin.]
Q: What do you do there?
A: Let me walk you through the process of the chicken's journey through the Free Flow department, using names of actual people without their permission so as to not protect their identities. A pallet arrives bearing crates of raw chicken pieces. Cale dumps the crates into a funnel-shaped vat and pushes the chicken pieces through the funnel and onto a conveyor belt that rises at a 45 degree* angle. At the top, the chicken dumps out onto a table where Imee sorts through and throws out bad pieces, sending the rest onto the next conveyor belt. In addition to performing triage on the chicken bits, Imee also operates not one but TWO belts. She wants a belt stop, it stops; she wants it to go faster, it goes faster. It's an intense position, but someone has to hold it down.
*[That's metric degrees.]
So Imee sends the acceptable chicken down this second conveyor belt, where it goes through a machine that, as far as I can tell, doesn't actually do anything accept control the rate at which the chicken falls onto the next conveyor belt. On this third belt, Tamara and Albert separate the pieces so as to insure they don't freeze together.
With me so far? Good. The chicken then disappears into the lair of the Great Solenoid. It's really cold in there, usually set at 30 degrees* below zero. The chicken then spends the next hour getting really cold while it slowly winds its way upstairs , where a majority of the action in the Free Flow department takes place.
*[Still metric degrees.]
The Great Solenoid then regurgitates the now frozen chicken bits into yet another funnel, which deposits them on yet another conveyor belt. A magical mechanical arm directs the chicken to one of two chutes, each of which leads to a table, where Tevin, Skyler,* Hine, and Shrek await its arrival. That fearsome foursome then shovels the chicken onto scales until the correct weight is achieved, usually 2.5 kilograms**. The 2.5 kg portions are then dumped onto---you guessed it---another conveyor belt, which takes them through a big machine. The chicken emerges from the machine in bags.
*[True story about Skyler. He started the same day I did, and we went through the reception area, which closes before we got off. This place is absurdly secure with a ten foot high barbed wire fence around the premises. The only ways in are through the reception and through the employee entrance, which requires an electronic key. Well, Skyler and I both rode with a dude named Ryan. At the end of the day, Ryan and I exited just ahead of Skyler, getting let out by a nice employee who used her badge for us. We waited for like 10 minutes, but still no sign of Skyler. Then a security guard walked by and said something along the lines of, "Someone just jumped the fence." It was Skyler, who, blocked by the closed reception, assumed the only way out was over the fence...because surely there couldn't be another exit...definitely not the one they showed us to use.
**[That's metric for "kind of like pounds but heavier."]
Ready to go then? NO! The machine dumps the bags onto a conveyor belt (sensing a pattern here?) where they are promptly intercepted by Mama Suey, who weighs them. If they weigh too much or too little, they are chopped open, with the contents dumped back into the funnel to be re-shoveled by the fearsome foursome, who will hopefully get it right next time. If they pass, they go back on the belt. When the conveyor belt runs out of itself, the bags fall into the waiting arms of Shirley, who puts them in a box---a box that Poppy folded together. When the box is full, Shirley slides it over to Kevin. Kevin is the closer. He's the one who finishes the job: no backup, no safety net, no one to fix his mistake should he go awry. Kevin weighs the box, pushes a button to print a label, closes the box, slaps on the label, pushes one more button to seal the box with a strip of blue plastic stuff, then shoves it onto one last conveyor belt. The chicken has now departed Free Flow. Nothing stands between it and delivery.
Q: What's a solenoid?
A: Click the Wikipedia link, you n00b. If you're too lazy, it's basically a cork screw wrapped around a nail.
Q: You didn't mention yourself in the description. What's your position?
A: I am fully qualified at every position. I started out as one of the fearsome foursome, but showed entirely too much potential to be contained in one place. Within a few days, they were trying me out at box folding and various scale positions. It only took a week and a half before I was entrusted with the closer's mantle, an honor most people take at least two weeks to earn. Then they sent me downstairs, where I soon mastered every point on every conveyor belt.
Q: Wow, you are pretty amazing at this job!* Do they ever send you out on special missions?
*[In Japanese, that's ワウ、この仕事でかなりすばらしい。 The back translation through babel fish is "It is splendid rather with wow and this work!"]
A: I have on occasion been dispatched to other departments to save their bacon. Once I went to Whole Birds and spent half a day tying drumsticks to each other and to the tail bone. Another time, I put whole chickens in a bag and sealed the bag. I was also stationed in VA*, where I did what I assumed was the most mundane and pointless job ever: covering chicken thighs in powder, then dropping them in a bucket of scary goo (aka "marinade"). That was the extent of my job. Then they pulled me off that and assigned me the task of finding broken sticks in the chicken kebabs. It was then that I discovered a more mundane and pointless job than powdering thighs.
*[I have no idea what that stands for...it might even be V8 for all I know.]
Q: Do you make barefoot chickens, or must they be shod?
A: I make all my chickens the way God intended: barefoot and without shoes on their feet. To do otherwise would be inhumane and cruel. Dang it, we have moral standards here in New Zealand!
Q: Which do you like better, chicken or cookies?
A: Cookies, but I'm better at chicken.
Q: Is working at the chicken factory fun?
A: Diana Finkel once said, "It doesn't have to be fun to be fun."
Q: Wait, time out...what's Rugby?
A: Think football, except you can't throw the ball forward, the clock doesn't stop, and you actually do things with your feet.
Q: Is it popular in New Zealand?
A: Rugby is only slightly less popular than being alive here. This is the one area in which New Zealand dominates on the international stage, and the Kiwis milk it for all it's worth. Incidentally, New Zealand is hosting the Rugby World Cup right now, and everyone is pretty fired up about it.
Q: Do you fear the imminent advancement of technology will render you and your fellow conveyor belt workers obsolete? By that I mean, are you all going to lose your jobs to robots?
A: Alas, it's a reality we've all learned to live with. Remember Mama Suey intercepting the bags of chicken to weigh them? That was my favorite station. But a new scale on the conveyor belt eliminated the position in its entirety. The robots giveth, and the robots taketh away.
Q: Do you still have two thumbs?
A: Yes.
Q: I thought chickens were bred, not manufactured. What's going on, here?
A: Look, all I know is, I haven't seen a single live chicken. This seems strong evidence for manufacturing. Remember the robots...
Q: Have you been to a rugby game?
A: Yes, and it was awesome! We all went to the U.S. vs. Ireland game. Here's a picture of Team Cat Biscuit plus some friends:
From left to right: Julia, our buddy Neil (the closest thing I have to a drug dealer here) Colby, Cheryl, Natalie, Robin (a funny Kiwi dude who likes bugs) and me.Q: Wait, you're American...why are you sporting the Irish flag?
A: Because my hair is Irish, you n00b! Besides, rugby is a big deal in Ireland, and there are some seriously passionate fans. When Ireland wins, they all go nuts. When the U.S. wins, the only people who care are the players moms. The sports fan in me wants to see the team with actual fans win.
Q: Good point. Does America really have a rugby team?
A: I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes.
Q: Moar pics!
A: Fine.
Kickoff
Lots of Irish people in our section.
Rawr!Q: Can you get Mrs. Kivowitz's car?
A: No. My days as a valet are ended. It's all chicken now.
Q: Do you have to have a theology degree to work in the chicken factory?
A: No. You may find this hard to believe, but you actually don't need any higher* education to do this. However, I do feel more qualified to deal with dilemmas regarding the morality of mass producing chicken for the sole purpose of eating them, and why the chicken crossed the road.
*[Or lower education for that matter.]
Q: Ok big shot, which came first, the chicken or the egg?
A: Such questions of origin are best left to the likes of Moses and Darwin. All I know is, we've reached a stage of chicken production where eggs are no longer necessary.
Q: What was the atmosphere like at the rugby game?
A: The singing of the national anthems sums it up. For the Star Spangled Banner, fans of the United States sang along reverently. For the boys in green, however, raucous melodies in at least six different keys broke out as Irishmen in varying stages of inebriation raised their voices in nationalistic pride. To be fair, the American crowd made a better showing than I anticipated (as did the players on the field) but the drunken Irish were quite entertaining---and upset that the final score was merely a 22-10 victory rather than the slaughter most were predicting.
Q: Should I "like" this?
A: Yes.
Q: Um...is it safe to eat chicken?
A: Absolutely. Without a doubt. We wash our hands thoroughly after every break---they have cameras to make sure we do so. If a piece of chicken falls on the floor, we throw it in a bin to be discarded...unless we need more pieces later to make weight one more time. Look, do you want the bird to have died in vain?
Q: Is rugby better than football?
A: You better believe it.
Q: How many times per day do you have to stick your hand up a chicken's butt?
A: Zero. Well, except for that one time I had to bag the whole chickens, which brought the total to at least two hundred. But I don't like to talk about that day.
Q: That's bad...any other hazards?
A: Innumerable. I'd like to point out that I wear a hard hat.
Q: Seriously?
A: Yep. When the frozen chicken emerges from the Great Solenoid and goes down one of two chutes, it's moving pretty fast. Imagine someone shooting a pool ball out of a bazooka right into your cranium, but instead of a pool ball it's a frozen drum stick, and instead of a bazooka it's gravity. You need some serious armor to protect from that. I also wear two pairs of gloves. That seems a bit gratuitous until you get stabbed by a chicken wing. I'm telling you, this is no place for children.
Q: Did you smuggle any beer into the stadium?
A: Two bottles!
Q: Is there anything more pathetic than working at a chicken factory?
A: Yes, getting fired by a chicken factory...
A: No. My days as a valet are ended. It's all chicken now.
Q: Do you have to have a theology degree to work in the chicken factory?
A: No. You may find this hard to believe, but you actually don't need any higher* education to do this. However, I do feel more qualified to deal with dilemmas regarding the morality of mass producing chicken for the sole purpose of eating them, and why the chicken crossed the road.
*[Or lower education for that matter.]
Q: Ok big shot, which came first, the chicken or the egg?
A: Such questions of origin are best left to the likes of Moses and Darwin. All I know is, we've reached a stage of chicken production where eggs are no longer necessary.
Q: What was the atmosphere like at the rugby game?
A: The singing of the national anthems sums it up. For the Star Spangled Banner, fans of the United States sang along reverently. For the boys in green, however, raucous melodies in at least six different keys broke out as Irishmen in varying stages of inebriation raised their voices in nationalistic pride. To be fair, the American crowd made a better showing than I anticipated (as did the players on the field) but the drunken Irish were quite entertaining---and upset that the final score was merely a 22-10 victory rather than the slaughter most were predicting.
Q: Should I "like" this?
A: Yes.
Q: Um...is it safe to eat chicken?
A: Absolutely. Without a doubt. We wash our hands thoroughly after every break---they have cameras to make sure we do so. If a piece of chicken falls on the floor, we throw it in a bin to be discarded...unless we need more pieces later to make weight one more time. Look, do you want the bird to have died in vain?
Q: Is rugby better than football?
A: You better believe it.
Q: How many times per day do you have to stick your hand up a chicken's butt?
A: Zero. Well, except for that one time I had to bag the whole chickens, which brought the total to at least two hundred. But I don't like to talk about that day.
Q: That's bad...any other hazards?
A: Innumerable. I'd like to point out that I wear a hard hat.
Q: Seriously?
A: Yep. When the frozen chicken emerges from the Great Solenoid and goes down one of two chutes, it's moving pretty fast. Imagine someone shooting a pool ball out of a bazooka right into your cranium, but instead of a pool ball it's a frozen drum stick, and instead of a bazooka it's gravity. You need some serious armor to protect from that. I also wear two pairs of gloves. That seems a bit gratuitous until you get stabbed by a chicken wing. I'm telling you, this is no place for children.
Q: Did you smuggle any beer into the stadium?
A: Two bottles!
Q: Is there anything more pathetic than working at a chicken factory?
A: Yes, getting fired by a chicken factory...
I'm honored to be the closest thing to a drug dealer that you have. Also I had no idea you were working at a chicken factory, which is an indicator that we don't hang out enough. I'll see you soon, so - like a midget at a urinal - stay on your toes.
ReplyDeleteYou go to other parts of a chicken factory to save their bacon? I'm confused . . .
ReplyDeleteWhat happens to the unacceptable chicken bits? Do they become McDonald's chicken nuggets?
Also, you look pretty hot in green, orange and white make-up. I suggest you wear it more often.
Neil: You, sir, have the best user name of anyone who has ever posted on my blog. And yes, we do need to hang out more. Let's make it happen.
ReplyDeleteWendy: 1) I realized the [poor] "save their bacon" pun could cause some confusion, and I therefore nearly went with "bail them out" verbiage instead. However, I worried that my readers would think the other department in the chicken factory were located on a sinking ship. This seemed the more catastrophic of the two potential misinterpretations. I apologize that you were rendered collateral damage for a greater cause.
2) I'm pretty sure the "unacceptable chicken bits" went into the Chicken Luncheon Roll I bought. My roommates have declared it inedible, for whatever that's worth.
3) Thank you. The general consensus here is that I look scary in green, white, and orange. More specifically, the term Irish Joker came up repeatedly. Just imagine that picture saying, "Why so serious, laddie?" But haters gonna hate. I'm glad at least one person appreciates my leprechaun blood. (Also, I forgot to mention it, but I was painted up for my RPM class that morning. That went over well.)
1) Actually, had you gone with the verbiage "bail them out," in this country, one would assume you meant "caused the Federal Reserve to give them massive amounts of free taxpayer money" which WOULD have been more confusing than the bacon metaphor, and might even have caused rioting.
ReplyDelete2) Did the chicken factory sell you the Chicken Luncheon Roll? Cuz if not, I'm seeing a potential revenue stream for the chicken factory right now . . .
3) I have a hard time believing a guy in a shiny blue wig would be making fun of your Irish painted face . . . just sayin' . . .