Angry Food, a retrospective

Oh, we've seen angry "food" animals before. (Here, for instance. And here.) It has only now become apparent that those examples were the opening salvos in a new offensive. And when we say offensive…

It's really the latest variation in the Submissive Dominant theme.






These seething "food" animals! How they bristle! How they fume! Yet they renounce the power of their misdirected rage. Like the towering Submissive Dominant who succumbs to his flimsy prison, these angry, angry animals are at a loss.







Take these chumps, aligned in anger on behalf of their corporate master, A Better Butcher Shop. Consumed by fury though they be, they neither run nor fight. They surrender, for surrender, we are told again and again, is the natural inclination of all "food" animals. The violent animal, the enraged animal, the clever animal—they all live, and die, to serve.










Addendum: The Firebreathing Hog even has his own retinue of lookalikes: the Mr. BBQ Catering pig and the Billy Bones "Pork U Love To Fork" pig.

First Hand Smoke

He comes from beyond the grave, a creature of vapor and dark pride, happily suffering the unwholesome light of the living, braving the poisonous, free air.

His plot has borne fruit! Or no, not fruit. Meat. His plot has borne meat. (One of the more horrid sentences we've committed in a long time.)

Beneath the inverted smile of the Arch, the pig had cast himself on the grill that he might be transformed. From the smokestack he rises, white-gloved, having made of himself a burnt offering, to bestow the gifts of his flesh.

It's downright holy! It's like every element of western religion crammed into a bastardized, new creed! And lo! The lion doberman will lie down with the lamb pig!

The ham! The ribs! Torn from a miraculously bloodless carcass, they drip with the potency of the once-alive, and the faithful dogs set upon them with gladness.









Addendum: The artist of this thing, whose work has been featured in these "pages" many times (most recently here), has a real flair for the unsavory. Could he be putting out even more influential stuff than the BBQ Logo King?

Suicide Snacks: quickies 6

As our schedule permits, we allow ourselves a little breather with these brief discursions.

(And as your schedule permits, please review the previous installment of the series.)

Have you forgotten that even worms enjoy dying? No form of life is so humble that it can remain unmoved at the thought of its eventual, meaningless death!





Far be it from us to claim that a pig derives her worth from her capacity to charm humans and fill them with lusty fervor, but Sweet Mama doesn't exactly… Well, she's not the typical barbecue floozy. She is possibly a boar in drag.










Second thoughts or a simple case of stage fright?








Over the years, we have seen some unappealing appeals, but this is the least enticing enticement we can remember.

Smokin in the Oaks

An exciting twist on the standard barbecue battle! Here, we see a mating ritual re-imagined: the pig awaits with gleeful dread the winner of the contest, for that is the man who will cook and eat him. (Her?)

It's knowing that he (she?) is the prize, the conquest—that's the thing. The knowledge that you've been selected to die and be eaten is the strongest aphrodisiac. Well, for depraved "food" animals.

Of course, the pig has given himself (herself?) a head-start and already languishes in the flames.

Are we alone in detecting some queasy sexual overtones? The men competing for the right to have their way with the porcine prize? The "mounted shooting"? It's probably just us. Our avocation has thrown reason into ruins.

McCormick Mustard

So comely, so willing, so crisp. So dead.

Right about now, you're probably remembering these oven-baked sex objects. (We apologize.) Like the Rachachuros vixens, this fish craves, shall we say, "action." Gamely, she props herself on a fin, beckoning the faceless squirter to do her worst.

She's already been killed and cooked, but she can still be violated in other, less conventional, ways. By being mustardized, for one. And by being eaten, of course. And whatever else these two can dream up.

The pouting, lipsticked lips, the long-lashed eye, the posture: the very humanness of the sexed-up fish and our automatic, reflexive identification with her are thoroughly off-putting.

The intended message appears to be "Why eat a dead animal who just lies there like a cold fish when you can eat a hot dead animal who, you know, wants it?"

(Thanks to Dr. Kelly G. for the unwitting referral.)

Carnivorale

Say the organizers of Carnivorale, an orgy of animal flesh and organs:

"As heath conscious eating has grown more popular, meat has taken a beating. But a group of local chefs plan to invite diners to a restaurant where they can indulge in their most carnivorous desires."

Such heartfelt pleas for understanding from that most powerless minority—the meat-eaters! They've been rendered all but invisible in our society, haven't they? And now, thanks to the efforts of those who won't be denied their chance to eat with all the dignity of Caligula, they can emerge from the shadows for one night only. This night, in fact. November 9, 2009. In St. Louis. Perhaps as you read this, they are casting off the chains of their lowly status, a status enforced by law as well as custom, in a long overdue "celebration for meateaters."

We commend them for their bravery (if not their good taste). No more, they cry! No more will they be silent! The world must know, even for only one night, that they are still here! If not for the millions of burger joints, chicken shacks, fish fries, grocery store meat counters, butcher shops, hot dog stands, ribberies, and the rest, the untold barbecue competitions and festivals, and the utter ubiquity of their habits, we could almost believe they no longer existed! But they do!

Yes, the meat-eaters make up only 96.8% of American adults, but they will hide no longer!

And so they proclaim their right to live like emperors of decadent Rome, feasting on the most arcane, the most cruel, the most unnecessary foods of all! Veal! Pork cheek napoleon! Deer liver! Pig bellies! Caramel made with duck fat!

But we're here to talk about suicide food, not menus, and Carnivorale does not disappoint. Unwilling to stop at the indulgence of their every perverse appetite, they trot out a fine example of suicidefoodist imagery: a porcine Josephine Baker clad in pork-chop brassiere and skirt trimmed in bones! She is a morbid goddess of sex and death! Her coming heralds a New Age of blood-soaked sacrifice and righteous wrath!

How soothing that the meat-eaters, so tentative, so precious, have embraced an icon of such power!

(Thanks to Dr. Josh for the referral.)

Mo's Smokehouse BBQ

And the meat people say that vegans have a poor understanding of the realities of animal agriculture!

Out of touch, are they? Living in a dream world, are they?

As the meat enthusiasts tell it, miniaturized pigs use large-model pigs as a means of conveyance. Or maybe we are meant to understand that mother pigs deliver up their edible offspring, bearing them on their backs like hairless, rooting possums.

We're ignoring the grinning pig on the right side. He's the same fantastical creature so common in the Barbecue Bestiary. We've seen him hundreds—thousands—of times before. He's the foremost symbol of the Suicidefoodist Movement.

It's the Automatic Pig Delivery System we're interested in. That's the latest twist on the range of self-preparing pigs we know so well. Fulfilling their role as a sort of hyperfood, they do more than regular-old food. They do all the heavy lifting, from delivery to dying. It's a full-service operation, and it runs on the hard work of our tireless victims!

Tennessee Heritage BBQ Festival

If it weren't so creepy, it would almost be cute. This precious pig actually thinks he's celebrating his heritage! (There was also once a Scottish pig laboring under a similar delusion.)

He's got the coonskin cap, just like a native Tennessean. Or… isn't that, like, Kentucky? Either way, he thinks he's one of them. And like other animals desperately trying to belong, to be accepted by the humans who have only ever wished them ill, he'll go to any lengths to fit in.

"What's that, fellas? Stand closer to the grill? Okay, but it's kinda hot where I am already. No, no, sure, sure. How's this? Come again? Even closer? Um… Okay. (Ouch!) Is this good? Is this heritagey enough? No? Okay, but I think… I think I'm starting to cook! Guys? I'm cooking! (Ouch!) Come on, guys—I'm from Tennessee!"

La Table du Terroir

We don't want to tell the Academie de Suicidefoodisme Français its business, but "terror" in French is terreur, not terroir.

And what word could describe this tableau of butchery better than terreur?

Les amis, together even after their death and decapitation, favor us with the rictus of dismal joy. It's as though they have chosen to descend from their heaven to haunt the boulevard, to coax the hungry and demented. Or maybe this is simply their way of watching the final act of their lives' drama: not their release from the prison of life (O, blessed moment!), but the intimacy of their own consumption.

C'est la mort!

(Image source.)

United Egg Producers, a digression

Now, regardless of what a certain site would have you believe, we spend very little time bashing the free-range movement (or addressing it at all). While we insist that many free-range establishments are not appreciably different from their counterparts, we will stipulate that in some circumstances, animals are better off living under free-range conditions than those found on "conventional" farms. Moreover, speaking pragmatically, we concur that some free-range provisions or laws might be necessary steps on the way toward true change.

That said, let's take a closer look at the issue.

The United Egg Producers, proud prodders of chickens, explain the matter with an utter lack of bias!

And we're right there with them. Who was it who tried to peddle that free range malarkey to the chickens?

Freedom? The chance to rejoin the natural world, with its, you know, environments and, like, weather and puddles? What kind of monster would lie to a bird about the fictitious benefits of a freely ranging existence? It gives one pause.

All along, we knew that free range was a scam! Chickens are obviously better off in cramped cages, where they, um… Wait. What?

Sorry. We just… Hmm? Oh, um, where were we?

That's right: the evils of free range.

You see, chickens (like any sentient beings worth their salt) prefer not to be preyed upon. Though they find themselves outfitted as for war, with their GI rifles and helmets, they would rather be done with the whole bloody business.

Still, we confess we never knew they preferred a lifetime of imprisonment.

It's at this point where our credulity is almost (almost) strained.

Not wishing to be snatched up by a hawk? Fair enough.

Not wanting to get rained on? Well… maybe.

But fearing criticism for the oniony flavor of the unfertilized eggs your captivity was established to produce and profit from?

Then again, if the chickens say so.

All in all, a persuasive argument against free range. Like we've (not actually) always said, it's a hoax!

(Thanks to Dr. John V. for the referral.)

Pig Roast and Halloween Party

Nothing to be afraid of here, with this sample Halloween pig-roast-and-party invitation.

It's just a pig-witch, smiling at the thought of her own roasting skin and flesh.

While grasping a barbecue fork in her deformed clawlike hand.

And sinking in the mud, making us wonder whether she'll drown before she can be shot in the head with a bolt gun.

Kids! Come back! It'll be fun!

Why are you crying?

(Happy Halloween.)

Bishop's Barbeque

This kind of throws religion's capacity for providing comfort out the window. When confronted with the universe's unimaginable vastness, when we despair of finding our purpose within its infinite expanses, religion offers us a hopeful calm. When we contemplate our own death, and the eternity that will elapse as we continue in an existenceless state, religion can console us with a life after our death.

And then there's this guy.

What message for his flock?

"Follow me!" he says resolutely, waving his crozier around like a conductor's baton. "Into the fires! Therein lies the meaning you have sought!"

He offers the pigs pain. He promises them death. And all they must do to secure their rightful (and lowly) place in the unfolding of things is allow themselves to be killed and eaten.

Are you surprised that this is the fastest-growing religion among pigs? And are you surprised than an actual Episcopal Diocese would employ His Eminence the Pig to advertise its barbecue? Some things happen beyond reason.

Green Cow Green Beef Tripe

It's been so long since our first analysis of suicidefood dog food—more than a year and a half ago—that we had almost forgotten just how unsettling it is.

This cow here, she of the green tripe, looks almost… sedated? (Drugged? Like she's been grazing on the "wire grass," as the kids say?)

While we cannot rule out the possibility that she's been goofed up, we interpret her demeanor as an overabundance of good-natured apathy. This is the expression one wears when one believes all resistance—all objection—is fruitless. When one has concluded that the fundamental state of the universe is senselessness, that life is propped up by irony. "Yeah, well, what are you gonna do?" the cow seems to say. "So do like I do and just sit back and enjoy the ride."

Yes, of course. Enjoy it! View the world with wry detachment as your stomach (one of the first three chambers, typically) is crammed into a can, along with some of what you'd recently eaten, is then shipped around the country, and, finally, is fed to some dog somewhere.

What are you gonna do?

(Thanks to Dr. Robert for the referral.)

Bathing Beauty: a paradox

If you harbored any doubts that strange forces are at work, forces mustered to overthrow reason and decency and install despair and confusion in their place, you need only look to this image.

This painting (image source), part of a mural at the Costa Mesa Omelette Parlor, depicts a sun-worshiping sow at the park. Demurely topless, she dozes on her undone bikini top in the mid-day heat.

As such, she perfectly represents that bizarrest of all suicidefoodist icons, the Sexy Sow. We've seen her sisters in these "pages" many times, and each appearance is more baffling than the last. For it combines sexual neurosis and suicidal "food" animals in a way that should never have occurred to anyone. But there it is, enshrined in untold murals, logos, menus, and the other paraphernalia of the entrailpreneur.

We understand the impulse that leads to suicidefoodism. We understand the comfort derived from animals who appear pleased with people's desire to kill and eat them. We deplore it, but we understand it. We don't understand, however, this desire to see "food" animals as sexual beings. Is it the horror movie cliché of wishing violence on the sinful? Exactly why are they made scapegoats? For what must they be punished? And how, exactly, does this put anyone's mind at ease and create psychological distance?

It's as though seeing in them some aspect of humanity has made it easier for them to be objectified.

Thus is the Sexy Sow Paradox.

Pigalicious BBQ

This decal is a lavish bit of generica—it advertises no specific restaurant or product, but can easily be pressed into service on behalf of any pig-related company or consumer goods.

It's got a lot going for it: a pig's come-hither gaze, the apple of death held aloft like Eve's temptation, even a little heart nestled amid the typography.

Honestly, it's as thoughtful and painstaking a piece of suicidefoodiana as any created for a national chain or prestigious local joint. Its all-purpose intentions mean that it is a distillation of everything that's "good" about suicide food. Indeed, it's got the pig proud to play its role as foodstuff and the cutesy admixture of sex and death. (There is something repellent about the way the pig tries to lure us with the barbecue equivalent of a ball gag.)

As an everydecal, suitable for any barbecue-themed business that should come along, it hits all the "right" notes and could easily render even the fly-by-nightiest spot every bit as nauseating as the best-bankrolled barbecue establishment.