Suicide Clothing: a digression

Today's suicidal animal has so many choices! He need not bequeath his body to the butcher or the grocer. No, he is limited only by the sick power of his warped imagination.

Of course, as we know from our studies of suicidefoodiana, medication or other treatment (even on an outpatient basis!) is rarely recommended. No, the "best" thing to do, it would seem, is to give the poor beasts a final, friendly handshake and shove them on their way to eternity. Which can take the form of spits, cauldrons, bullets, hooks, harpoons, and the swords of the torero.

Or even the gentle ministrations of the professional tanner? Well, why not indeed? It certainly doesn't make any less sense, now, does it? And this explains our present subjects. Seen here in an image appearing on a website devoted to the proper care of leather goods, these three chums—may we infer their bond from the fact that they are bathing together?—have willed their bodies to the practitioners of the sartorial arts. Maybe not their entire bodies, but at least their outsides. (Of course, the lamb doesn't really have his little heart in. That wool will grow back. He is our first suicidefoodist poseur!)

Like all good Accomplice Animals, this trio feels compelled to go the extra mile. Hence, the old Suds 'n' Scrubs. We wouldn't want to force the tanner to stoop to cleaning the hides himself, would we? Think of this as a purification ritual, their final act before committing their flesh to posterity.

For your "pleasure," some more pictures of happy skinwear extolling the virtues of cleanliness:















Addendum (3/08/08): And here's an animal who—what's her deal?—isn't happy with the arrangement.













Addendum 2 (3/01/10): This cow is so excited to take part that she's made herself into a hood roof ornament for Jamin' (sic) Leather! (Thanks to Dr. Slodki for the referral.)














Addendum 3 (8/17/10): This cow and her ass are happy to be here, in the world of cows (and their asses) being transformed into clothing. (Thanks to Dr. Chris for the referral and the photo.)

Harlem Original Chicken

If this cute, widdle birdy doesn't make you hungry, you don't have a soul. Or, no, wait. If this cute, widdle birdy doesn't make you hungry, you don't have senile dementia. Right, that's it.

We've seen the Cult of Cute at work before, but this mascot takes cute to a whole different, otherworldly level. His cuteness—to be fair, an acquired taste—is his sole selling point. You are meant to want to eat him because he's cute, which is a culinary (and ethical) atrocity.

This sort of come-on has been tried in the past, to be sure, but it never fails to astound us. The philosophy seems to exploit, in some people, what we may call the Grandmother Effect. That is, what excites one's fondness can trigger one's predatory impulses. "He's so cute I want to eat him up!"

So when prospective patrons see the sign and that adorable, helpless, not-even-fully-formed bird, they salivate. And by that time, little Original Chicken has already imprinted upon them, gosling-like, and would follow his new "mothers" anywhere. Even to the kitchen and its 425° ovens.






Addendum: Say hello to the perfect li'l playmate for Original Chicken. Doesn't he make your mouth water?

Joulunkinkku

This image was discovered on the website of the manufacturer of an antibiotic used on livestock. (Because who else cares more about animals than the people working to keep them healthy enough to kill and eat?) It's just the kind of detail that makes documenting suicide food so darn nauseating fun!

Joulunkinkku is Finnish for "Christmas ham," so this is the perfect pig to discuss on Christmas Day. And do you see what they did here? A pig in a sauna—that most Finnish of scenarios!—when the dish's preparation involves a pan of water underneath the pig in the oven. The pig is thus steamed (as in a sauna) and baked. Or something. (Do we even want to understand? No, not really.) Beside him on the bench, a carrot and a potato, likewise getting the deep-steam treatment. Outside, in the snow, Santa's boot (?), a candy cane, and a miniature Santa (?). Must be more Finnish symbolism we aren't privy to.

Jocularity notwithstanding, what we see here is the same sneering dishonesty we've seen before. As in this image, our Finnish pig is meant to give the impression of roasting himself. "It was his choice to sit in the sauna all afternoon! We tried to talk him out of it! But what can you do?" Uh huh. It's not merely deceptive. It's cynical and demeaning. They don't even have the decency to tell the truth about our pig's demise.

To round out our commentary, here are some more suicidal pigs enjoying their last hurrah, from the same site! (Or is it the same pig rehearsing for the big moment?) Either way, it's festive times. Merry Christmas!

Special Report: Pig Logo Exposé 3

The scandals just keep coming! When we first began investigating hazy reports of pig logo duplication, we never dreamed the rabbit hole went this deep. Now, after two installments of our popular series (here and here), the Affaire d'Logo shows no sign of letting up.

Ladies and gentlemen, Pig Logo Exposé 3.

















































































(Left to right, by row: 17th Street Bar & Grill, The Brick Pit, Wallace Barbecue, Abbotside Events, The Pig & Whistle Pub, Volusia County (Deland, Florida) Fair, miscellaneous bar-b-q, My Place Bar-B-Q, Hursey's Pig-Pickin' Bar-B-Q, Bates City Bar-B-Que, Save On Meats (source), Bovina Suina (source), Smoke Pit (source), unidentified German pork purveyor, Brett's BBQ, BBQ Bob's.)

We thought that Crotchy (the first exposé pig) and Pig Out (the second) were prevalent. But this pig—let's call him Ta-Da!—is truly ubiquitous. Coming out of the gate with 16 specimens! And that's before the masses chime in with their examples! Well, the mind reels.

Ta-Da must have been on the scene for a while—witness the considerable variety in his attested forms. Here are the hallmarks of the breed: arms upraised (when present), pigeon-toed trotters (when present), distinctive snout-swirl, and—the true touchstone—that left-side floppy ear.

Ta-Da's appropriators have been willing to modify him to a much greater extent than we've seen with other iconic pigs. He might be given a bunch of balloons to hold, or a tray or mug of beer; he might be aged (17th Street) or cutened up (Bovina Suina); he might be rendered as only a head; he might be given a chef's hat or napkin or sunglasses to wear. But underneath all the props, beneath all the refashioning, he's still our obsequious Ta-Da. Long may he shill for the pork-profiteers!

Again, we must ask: Why, especially when they are prepared to alter the image, why do they bother using such a well-traveled icon?








Addendum (12/26/2007): Well, that didn't take long. This post is only two days old, and already we've found another appearance of Ta-Da. Behold, the Englefeld (Saskatchewan) Hog Fest instantiation.

The Barn Bacon Co. & The Barn Butchery

A curious admixture of blunt and blunted.

On one side: barn bacon, "butchery." This is refreshing candor. "From farm gate to dinner plate!" There's no mistaking what they're up to in Newark-on-Trent. Butchery for all! The prosaic art of baconizing pigs.

But then, right alongside the blunt wording, we have the smiling, scribbly, soft-around-the-edges hogs. The logo's forthrightness is matched only by its obfuscation.

And so The BBC & The BB straddles the line that separates the true believer from the suicidefoodist with doubts. To sugar coat or to say it straight? It's almost as though they have made a deliberate break with the Movement and we are catching them in the act of first expressing their apostasy.

Are we seeing a schism in action? Or is the umbrella of suicidefoodism broad enough to shelter all creeds? We worry for the future.

But then we see this, on The BBC & The BB website, and we know we have nothing to fear:

"Happy Animals = Great Tasting Quality Meat"

They haven't left the fold, after all. For, after "Animal = Meat," this might be the most orthodox of all suicidefoodist truths!

First Suicidefoodiversary: a digression

When we undertook this enterprise, on December 20, 2006, we could never have imagined the sprawling clearinghouse of animals-that-want-to-be-eaten material it would become.

Now, 192 posts and who-knows-how-many absurd, hideous images later, we're still going strong. (And still vomiting periodically when we stop to consider exactly what we are chronicling.)

And so we give hearty thanks to all our supporters, our regular readers, our accidental visitors, our contributors, and even our irascible detractors.

Thank you all.

We don't plan on changing a thing.

My Daughter's Place Steakhouse

We don't know what, precisely, is going on here, but each possibility is more horrific than the last.

Possibility #1: The cow is the mother and her daughter has been lovingly transformed into the food in the bowl. Whatever food it might be. Steak donuts? Perhaps it is only her brains? (Let's call this the "My Daughter's Final Resting Place" hypothesis.)

Possibility #2: The cow is the daughter and the mother's final resting place is the big, blue bowl. The mother's pride reaches from the afterworld as she encourages her to "Eat, eat! You're nothing but skin and bones. Oh, and udder."

Possibility #3: The cow is the daughter and her mother is the proprietress of the steakhouse who has forced her daughter to eat her father as a cruel test of her filial devotion. (And/or father-hatred.)

Regardless, the question remains: Have these people learned nothing from the Mad Cow scares of the late 90s? Cows eating parts of cow carcasses is never a good thing.

We would love to hear your thoughts on these hypotheses. Please do feel free to use our comments section for that purpose.

Raising Rabbits

It was a different world back then. Living under the specter of war, of fear and uncertainty, Americans found themselves tested. Patriotism was a way of whistling in the dark, of finding safety, even tranquility, in those terrible times.

Service and sacrifice. Everyone had to pull his weight, do his share, carry the load. This single-mindedness was an expression of a nation's determination, a people's will to carry on, to triumph!

But in some—those with weak personalities—it revealed a tic, a kink, a hiccup of the mind. Such is the case with our warbunny here.

A psychological type like him would be stamped 4-F. But he serves in other ways. Namely, in volunteering himself and all his fellow Leporine-Americans. (As John Milton didn't say, "They also serve who only serve themselves. For dinner.") If condemning generations of his rabbit relations to the cooking pot—and then jumping in after them—can give a shot in the arm to the folks on the home front, well then, he'd call that a small price.

Of course, he is insane.

The pencil in his hand suggests that he is the architect of the deluxe rabbit hutches pictured on the brochure. "Yes, sirree! Why, with my keen plans, you can easily raise 15 of us hoppers in one Liberty Hutch, right there in your back yard! Ain't America grand?"

What can we say of someone who devotes himself so cheerfully to the destruction of his brothers? Can we ever be truly free with creatures like this in our midst?

(Image source.)







Sartorial notes: 1. While we appreciate the Uncle Sam hat, we find the ear placement unfeasible at best. 2. The straps across the rabbit's chest make us anxious.

Imperial Catfish

Ignore the mixed metaphor. (Is Imperial a superhero—the tights, the underwear-on-the-outside, the cape, the musclehead posturing? Or is he an emperor—the crown, the name?) What's important is Imperial's imperious countenance, his haughty bearing, his determination to be the most delicious damn fish you ever encountered.

Look at those "whiskers"! The eyebrows more typically seen on the face of a tsar! The deadly, medusa-like gaze! Imperial is not to be trifled with.

And, as with all kings from the land of suicide food, his highness's every command involves his being eaten. "Kneel, commoner! Kneel and hack me apart! A lemon, a lemon! My kingdom for a lemon!"

The madness of suicidefoodist royalty makes King George III look stone-cold sober. Perhaps it's the inbreeding, or the isolation from everyday folk. Whatever the cause, Imperial Catfish and his mammalian (usually porcine) counterparts are crazy as shit-house rats. Do we have the courage to say the emperor has no clothes?

Well? Do we?