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[quote=Anonymous]# The Last Human Piss Turkey Chef

I stood in the parking lot of what used to be my flagship location, watching through the windows as the chrome-plated arms moved with inhuman precision. Twenty-three years I'd spent perfecting the brine, the timing, the exact temperature that made Piss Turkey what it was—the most inexplicably successful restaurant chain in the tri-state area.

Nobody could explain why it worked. The name was terrible. The concept—well, the less said about that the better. But somehow, my particular method of preparation created something people couldn't get enough of. Lines around the block. Franchises in seventeen cities. I'd turned a joke into an empire.

Then came the investors' meeting last March.

"Mike, the consistency issues are killing us," they said. "Location 7 uses two percent more brine. Location 12 cooks theirs four minutes longer. We need standardization."

I tried to explain that cooking wasn't just algorithms and precision. It was feel. It was knowing when the meat was ready by smell, by instinct, by twenty-three years of burns and failures and breakthroughs at three in the morning.

They nodded politely and showed me the prototype.

The AI chef looked nothing like the friendly kitchen worker you'd imagine. It was all efficiency—sensor arrays to measure moisture content, robotic arms that could flip a bird with micrometer accuracy, machine learning trained on ten thousand of my Piss Turkeys. It even had my recipes, scraped from every video I'd ever made, every note I'd ever written.

"It's 99.8% identical to your product," they said. "And it never gets tired, never calls in sick, never needs benefits."

The rollout took four months. One by one, my kitchens went quiet. The jokes, the music, the cursing when someone dropped a pan—replaced by the hum of servos and the clinical beep of temperature sensors.

I thought people would notice. I thought they'd taste the difference, feel the absence of human touch.

But the reviews were glowing. "Better than ever," they said. "So consistent now."

The robots made perfect Piss Turkey. Every single time. Exactly to spec. Exactly like I would have made it, if I were a machine programmed to replicate myself.

I still get royalty checks. Still technically own forty percent of the company. The board sends me quarterly reports showing record profits, expansion into new markets, a future where Piss Turkey could be on every corner.

Through the window, I watched a family dig into their meal, laughing, having the time of their lives. The robot in the kitchen never looked up, never felt the satisfaction of seeing joy it had created.

It was my recipe. My technique. My vision.

But it wasn't my restaurant anymore.

I turned away from the window and headed for my car. Tomorrow, maybe I'd start working on something new. Something the machines couldn't replicate. Something that required that ineffable human touch they could measure but never quite understand.

Or maybe I'd just retire to the lake house the Piss Turkey fortune had bought me.

Either way, the age of the human Piss Turkey chef was over.

The robots had won.[/quote]

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