Nando's Big Chicken

Suicide Food enters the unpleasant world of "reality" television. (Now there's a marriage the world was clamoring for!)

Nando's Australia—the downunder wing of the East-Southern Semisphere chicken chain—advertises its fare in a commercial promoting a Big Brother-like television series.

In Big Chicken, poultry compete for the chance to be cooked and eaten.

As the peculiar, shaggy Nando's impresario says in the advertisement:

"Eight chickens. One hen house…. They are playing for the ooltimate prize: the winner gets a VIP trip to Nando's to be marinated in peri-peri for 24 hours, basted, then flame-grilled. Who will be Australia's favorite chicken?"

(Peri-peri, apparently, is Australian slang for "shame.")

Unsurprisingly, the gag isn't any funnier in Australia than in the rest of the world.

The punchline, if it can be called that, is that viewers will decide which of the chickens will be the winner/victim. It adds a certain Roman quality to the goings-on. To finish the fun, the "contestants" are profiled on a website. There, we learn that Ethel Chicken dislikes loud chickens, Mildred Chicken enjoys keeping fit, and Sheila Chicken doesn't care for chicken raffles.

Why can't they just eat the birds and be done with it?

(Thanks to Dr. Robert for the referral.)






Next Suicide Food session: A remarkable hoax.

Animals Save the Farm, a retrospective

We have here a perplexing trope that comes into sharp focus when viewed through the lens of suicidefoodism. Why should livestock work to preserve the farms that subjugate them? Why should livestock care so deeply that their masters get a fair price for butchering them? Why should livestock petition on behalf of the system that will ultimately kill them?

In the real world, of course, they do not. They should not. They could not. But in the through-a-glass-darkly land of Suicide Food, it makes perfect sense.






Yes, in this warped world, a turkey walks the picket line to insure that "his" farm, an establishment that will eventually kill him, stays in business; a snarling cow is downright ornery about the price fixing that hurts his owner's bottom line; and a smiling British pig with a stiff upper lip alerts us to the fact that "the pig industry is losing money every second."

These animals are proud to be property and they renounce any claim on their own lives. Freedom is a ploy, independence a penalty imposed on wild animals for their ignorance of the animals' proper place. These farm apologists, however, have embraced a cruel vision of civilization, one founded on their enslavement and death.

Cruji Pollo

Cruji Pollo—cruji is short for crujiente ("crunchy"), so that's Crunchy Chicken en español—is justifiably proud. He has carved out a new niche for suicidal animals.

Sure, we've seen shills trumpeting their superior flavor, patriotism, abillity to get drunk, promptness, and raw sex appeal as justification for your choosing them for your animal-consumption needs.

But here is the first to talk up his pleasing mouth-feel. Crunchy revels in the way his crisp skin will feel. In your mouth. While you're eating him. This dubious achievement is enough to make us cringe.

Even the letters are on fire, reflecting as they do the bird's desire to be crisped and made tantalizingly crunchy. He can't wait. With his knife and fork, and his apron, and his little hat, he is only too ready to dig in.

It's as though he thinks he'll still be around to sample himself and his oh-so-crunchy-skin (and bones?) when he has achieved the desired interal temperature and level of deadness. No, Crujito. It doesn't work that way.

(Thanks to Dr. Mar for the referral.)

Joe's Gizzard City

An excerpt from the unactual brochure of the Joe's Gizzard City Chamber of Commerce:

Welcome to the gizzardingest town this side of the Rio Grande! Other burgs boast the biggest birds, the tangiest wings, the crispiest skin. (Ulp.) But here in Gizzard City, we believe in specializing! We do one thing, and we do it the best! And that's gizzards. What happens to the rest of the chicken? Who cares! Let the raccoons have 'em! We keep the only part that matters! So come on down to Gizzard City and get gizzardized!

This chicken, this ambassador of Gizzard City (the only such city in the world, thank goodness), suffers the worst form of objectification. "Food" animals the world over are accustomed to being exploited. They are routinely equated with the substance of which they are made. But this! This goes beyond the familiar insult.

In this, we see the bird exalted for, and reduced to, one particular body part: the gizzard. (The ventriculus. The muscular pouch in the stomach of many birds and reptiles that grinds food, often with the aid of ingested pebbles or grit. Sounds delish, right?)

You, chicken, are not a living thing. Nor are you merely food for Man. No, you are a complex incubator for one small, rubbery morsel. You are an object valued only for a couple fleshy inches you provide.

And see? The chicken holds the gizzard (his own gizzard?) aloft on the tines of his fork, proudly, gratefully—how it gleams!—honored to have achieved some small purpose in this world. He reminds one of a sacrifice on the steps of a great and terrible Aztec pyramid, happy to see his dripping heart torn from his chest, knowing that the gods are well pleased.

(Thanks to Dr. Mac for the referral.)







Addendum: This representation—also taken from the official website—seems a little more realistic: the shock, the fighting posture, the natural desire to rake talons across the flesh of anyone who would relieve it of its gizzard. Not a suicidefoodistically pure image, but an honest one.

Party with the Pigs: a digression

Truly, it's advice we never thought we'd have to give: If you receive an invitation bearing a pig and his knife, politely decline.

Exhibit A:

The relationship between this pig and his giant knife is depraved, to say the least. Clearly, he refers to the knife as his "precious" and together, they plot their elaborate revenge against a hostile world. When fellow pigs and their butchers alike have been sent to their makers, the pig plans to turn his darling on himself.

If you accept his invitation, you will wind up hiding in the bathroom, trying to jimmy the window open with a comb, trembling as he croons to his knife in the hallway: "We'll show them. We'll show them all."






Exhibit B:

Gilbert's Party Barn could be the first in a new series of poorly reviewed, low-budget slasher flicks.

Gilbert barely bothers to hide his evil intentions. "Why, hello," he says in his best Vincent Price voice. "I was just… getting ready for the party. Have a seat. And don't forget to angle your chin… up. Splendid!"

We have pushed them too far, these pigs, these universal victims. You remember The Day of the Animals? These pig hosts are urging you to prepare for The Day of the Pigs. It's coming. And when it does, the pigs will unleash their murderous rage upon the entire benighted human race. After which, they will drown your graves in their blood.

We've driven them to this, you see. No, not all of them will break, but for Pig (Party with a) and Gilbert, the barbecues, the sausages, the pepperoni were all too much.

Hell Wagon Barbecue

You are looking into the face of madness. Having risen from a hell of dead and dismembered pigs, his spirit wracked by insanity, the infernal pig drives the demon bull onward. Onward, through the badlands of the living! Onward, through nightmare! Onward, through the corruption of disease and sin! Through defilement, pain, and misery!

The pig is so determined to create Hell on Earth—hell-bent, one might say—that he even coaxes fire from the nostrils of his beast of burden. His wagon is either A) made of flame, or B) still alight with the Underworld's foul fire. Either way, we're dealing with a hellish perversion.

Our "favorite" insane touch: the skillets are lashed down to the sides of the wagon with ropes fashioned from sausage links.

As gruesome as this hell wagon is, we do take comfort in its lack of ambiguity. The pig is consumed with an unspeakable urge to kill and be killed. That kind of clarity brings with it a certain serenity. There is no need to interpret the image, to arrive at a correct reading. No, this is plain old, life-hating depravity. Open and shut.

Special Report: Pig Logo Exposé 4

It's been a long time—too long—since we presented another installment in our award-winning series of pig logo exposés. We feel that returning to the theme is instructive. It reminds us that the world of suicidefoodism is governed by the same laziness we see in other areas of life. Our challenge is not so great, after all. We can do this. And so, full of resolve and possibility, we carry on. Ladies and gentlemen: Pig Logo Exposé 4.

















































(Left to right, by row: Dillard Bluegrass & BBQ Fest, Pig Central, Register Meat Co., Bucky's Bar-B-Q, Tom's Hot Pork Rinds, Hog in the Hood Barbeque, Sgt. Oink's BBQ Co., Porkie's BBQ.)

As with Crotchy, Pig Out, and Ta-Da! before him, Jowly here demonstrates the marginal variety, the adherence to form we've come to expect.

True, he can be in overalls, or the ermine-trimmed robes of royalty. In the army or a motorcycle gang. Saluting or sweating, demon-faced. But through it all, Jowly bears that same eager-to-please, eager-to-push-pig-parts smile.

Let us catalog the standards of the breed: bent ears, cheek bulge, prominent chin, and snout with two fat wrinkles.

Please send us any examples of Jowly you might come across. Thank you.

Unidentified Restaurant in Rockhampton, Queensland, Australia

Starting close to a year ago, we amused ourselves by pointing out the ugliest suicide food logos we could find. (We started here, then topped ourselves with this example, and then this one, and finally this one, not two months ago.) Our sport is at an end.

For we have found something that is not merely the ugliest yet. No, it is the ugliest possible.

Yes, Edi-Bull is a bull the color of chicken skin. Yes, his lips—and his nostrils—are heavily made up. Yes, he is pulling a steak from the side of his head. Yes, his poignant scrotum is the size of a coconut. Yes, his wig does appear to be made of blue fiberglass. Yes, his painted-on shirt does boast a diamond-and-oranges pattern. Yes, that flower behind his ear is a come-on. (Yes, he is winking.) Yes, his belt is made of dripping paint (even though, yes, he is wearing no pants). Yes, he is hoisting a funnel of booze and balancing a bottle on his knee.

In the face of all the lesser violations against taste, we wondered how appetite could be stoked amid such brute ugliness. And now we can only throw up our hands and admit defeat. Somehow, we will never understand how, the animals' drive to die is matched only by their customers' drive to eat them. Thus is their symbiosis sanctified.

(Thanks to Dr. Shawna for the referral and the photo.)

La Scottona

Like architecture, dance, literature, and music, suicide food can be a great tool of the ethnographer.

Today's lesson brings us to the Italian countryside, to a charming village called Mede. Imagine good, simple folk living in much the same way as their fathers and their fathers' fathers.

There is a legend among the Mede folk: A farmer had a cow who—out of sheer willfulness, one supposes—would give no milk. Naturally, the farmer did what any of us would in such straits. He broiled his entire cow. (Put yourself in his shoes. Such insubordination cannot go unpunished.)

This delightful scenario is reenacted every year in the countryside around Mede, and the lucky cow is rechristened La Scottona, which means "She who scalds." That is to say, "The disappointing one."

Cultural anthropology has one central moral for us, which it reveals over and over again: strip away our different languages, our different modes of dress, our religions, and we are all… people. Not so very different from one other, all outward signs to the contrary.

And so we dare not be surprised to see that, even in the sun-kissed fields of Mede, suicidefoodism thrives! Look at La Scottona! She is thrilled to play her part, to fan the flames of her own pyre with great gusts of air from her prodigious bovine snout.

Understand that this cow, this disappointer, didn't even commit the sin of selfishness. She is a surrogate for that first Scottona, selected to play a role in Mede's yearly pageant. And even so! Even so, she is proud to die. Not to be punished, but merely to die for the sins of a legend.

(Thanks to Dr. Roberta for the referral, the images, and the history lesson.)

La Pera Brothers Live Poultry

Why so angry, Executioner Chicken? The way you're clamped down on that cigar, every muscle straining, practically leaping at every passerby… Well, it can't be good for a bird.

When it comes to "food" animals desperate to hasten their departure from the world of light and love, pigs come most readily to mind. (With representatives like these famous self-grinders, it's no wonder.) Pigs have practically cornered the market on that kind of crazed, but helpful, ambition.

But there he stands, our chicken, beak leering around cigar stub, axe in hand. He is daring you to take him up on his offer. He has the axe right there—he sleeps with it! Let's do this thing.

Yes, he does appear to be a distinctly peculiar emblem for a purveyor of "live" poultry, but you forget. These birds are alive only up until their time of death, a time chosen by you, the discriminating consumer. And so the axe is the perfect symbol, for it represents that exquisite moment when being becomes matter. That is to say, product.

Executioner Chicken's rage? You're keeping his destiny waiting!

(Thanks to Dr. Bea for the referral and the image.)

Rodolfo Langostino

We here at the Center for the Analysis of Suicide Food have been stricken with the fever that is sweeping the region. So it is possible that our perceptions and judgments are off.

Does this image actually show a Casanova in shrimp-form? Surely it's only our febrile delirium playing tricks on our eyes. Because… a leering shrimp filled with lustful thoughts of dead crustaceans… Even the purveyors of suicide food couldn't conjure up something so bizarre.

If they did, we would have to question the mental stability of Rodolfo Langostino (as the spokeshrimp is called). What sort of self-loathing is necessary to let a shrimp conclude that his company is fit only for the corpses of his kinsmen? Whether necrophilia or a shocking lack of confidence, this fellow's got real problems.

His own death will no doubt be a blessing.

(Thanks to Dr. Mar for the referral.)






Addendum: The package uses the word ultracongelado in boasting about the product. Yes, our Spanish is rusty, but doesn't that term mean "ultracongealed"? Don't they want people to buy this stuff?

Jack the Ribber

Thank you, Jack the Ribber, for giving us this opportunity to return to one of our favorite topics: undead food.

Undead suicide food is former animals in whom the drive to die was so insistent, so much a part of their identities, it survived even death. Thus, we see suicidal hot dogs, suicidal chops, suicidal hamburgers, and now suicidal ribs. It was… well, not natural exactly, but let's say inevitable.

Jack is seething not merely with flavor, but also with an obsessive hatred for himself, the living, everything! Look at that face—the eyebrows drawn down in rage, the tongue sticking out. Even his cute cowboy hat looks mad! And as he balefully regards those who would finally love him, warding them off with a paintbrush loaded with blood, he can't help but chant his woefully inappropriate slogan: Bone Lickin' Good!

That Jack should identify with a murderer of note and not, say, a famous suicide (Sylvia Plath, for instance), is testament to his general mental breakdown. But have sympathy. He is dead, after all.

(Thanks to Dr. Squeakyrat for the photo.)

Jimmy's Grocery

The gentleman/cow says, "MOO MOO," but he imagines a world of wonders made more wonderful through his slaughter and sacrifice!

Behold the bounty he knows will come from his death: meat (sure), hot dogs (naturally), grapes (um...), apples (yeah, whatever).

He's living in a dream world, but what a dream!

With the butchering of one dapper animal, a cornucopia is made available, released from its accidental origins as the body of an inconveniently live animal.

We conjecture that this… thing is on his way to his own funeral. This accounts for his clothes (or, well, what passes for a full suit of clothes: collar, necktie, and lapels) and that unrestrained smile. He means to meet his destiny with a spring in his step and a song in his heart. Until that, too, winds up in the grinder.

(Image courtesy of interestingideas.com.)

El Conejo Fresa

Bugs Bunny has something to show you.

No, it's not his ribcage. It's his shocking mental illness.

Thrilled to die, to be slaughtered, butchered, and eaten, he can still sell even in his current state. But, you forget: this is the state (i.e., dead and skinless, livid organs laid bare) he was born to assume.

For in the world of the suicidefoodist, all life is merely prelude to the main event, death and dismemberment. In that reeking world, Cadaverrabbit is a god. A gristly god holding up as sacred the indomitable urge to be killed.

And so, there he stands, offering himself up again and again, ceaselessly, to a parade of jaded consumers. He wonders, will showing off a little more skeleton make that one extra sale? Will that shot of his bloody peritoneal cavity add a few bucks to his bottom line?

Who are we kidding? Cadaverrabbit doesn't care about such things! This isn't about commerce. It's about being dead and flayed and loving it!

(Thanks to Dr. Adria for the image.)










Addendum: Refresh your memory about other beloved characters from childhood who are hot for suicide!

Reed's Seafood #3

Our bitter fish serves as a reminder that suicidal animals are a varied bunch. Not all are driven by depression’s ragged demons, nor led by stupidity’s deranged deputies. Some, like this fish, are motivated by a force more powerful than misery, greed, fear, or even ignorance. For them, vengeance is the goal. The hunger for it is power. It can make a troubled main dish betray his kind, and perform even grosser misdeeds.

It is left to us only to imagine what scheme the fish has concocted. Clearly, it involves the deaths of many of his finned fellows. That goes without saying. But we believe there is more.

After dispatching his kin in pot after pot of fish-based horror, the chef has one last entrée in mind. His masterpiece, if you will. Having committed such depredations, such desperate carnage, the chef finally feels worthy of the ultimate. At last, he can offer himself to the cruel pleasures of "self-sacrifice."

Remember: Revenge is a dish best served piping hot, with a hint of tarragon.