Alright, I give up. What exactly is this? I've encountered it on more than one occasion while facing down the business end of a soup can, and I can't help but wonder: if this is the pretty, corporate name for this particular facet of the chicken market, then what in the world did it start out as? I mean, there are PR people in billion-dollar suits making up digestible euphemisms for all the unsavory products and processes that end up on labels in your neighborhood ALDI (What? Your neighborhood doesn't have an ALDI? Ok, Richie Rich, just substitute "personal shopper" and keep reading.) If THIS is the best name their slick spin doctors could come up with, what in God's name is really going on at the chicken factories? Is there some sort of Pink Floyd nightmare machine that turns the Little Red Hen into sausage? Has the torture rack used in the days of Savonarola been revived for use in the poultry industry?

I suspect that this question is best left unanswered. There are lies we must tell ourselves in order to function in the world without losing our minds, and I imagine that if the truth behind mechanically separated chicken were made known, all the peoples of the world would rise up and strap Colonel Sanders himself to the rack. (Here, I refer to Colonel Sanders as a commercial entity, not an individual—I'm sure the man behind the bucket was finger-lickin' fabulous.) Truth is, I'm probably better off thinking my chicken nuggets come from willing avian donors. Or better yet, synthetic chickens. Robot chickens, even. And if the robot chickens develop consciousness and march on our cities? Well, I guess there's always potted meat, which, I've been told, is grown in faerie gardens and harvested by Oompa Loompas. No harm, no fowl.