Clearly #12 plays for a team with the livestock equivalent of a racial slur for a mascot. ("Hey, pigskin! Are you looking at my lady?" Say it out loud. You will feel unclean and guilty.) Pigs with integrity would picket this team's home games.
Everything about this offends. (And not merely the pig's surreal pose: his upper half seems to be heading upfield while his lower half makes for the endzone. Or those crablike pincers.) The ball he lovingly cradles—ostensibly the eponymous pigskin in question—could very well be the taut and tanned skin of his dear mother. Like he cares. Look at those eager-to-please eyes, that perky snout, the ubiquitous chef's hat. They mark him as a hostage who has lost all sense of self. He is now so craven that all of his own thoughts have been replaced with those of his captors.
After he has spiked the football/relative and then scored the extra point, the pig will oversee his own butchering and cooking. Whereupon he will receive the Most Delectable Player award. His parents, had they not been slaughtered and transformed into sporting goods long ago, would experience emotions ranging from pride to shame. And, let's face it, hunger. Their son doesn't just play good—he cooks up good, too!
Addendum: As pointed out in the comments, the pig's pose mimics the classic Heisman Trophy stance. Yes, absolutely. We stand by our argument, however, that the pig looks to be some kind of contortionist.
(Heisman photo from www.heisman.com.)