The Meat Palace

Welcome to the Meat Palace, in the land of rancid enchantment! The hallways of glistening gristle. The formal dining room with its lavish settings of bone (!) china. The chaise longues upholstered in viscera. Let’s be frank: not even Vincent Price would set foot in something called the Meat Palace. So for the name of a restaurant (if that’s what this particular meat palace is)…

Belatedly—our fantasy having already taken flight—we remember that animals who are crowned with painted tin and called king are usually not genuine blue bloods. They are red-blooded American animals, typically from underprivileged backgrounds, easy marks for the exploiter class. And so it is with King Hayseed XVI here, looking like he’s straight off the farm, the wheatstraw still in his teeth.

These are the most pathetic spokesanimals in the suicide food back catalog. Clearly, they do not have the capacity to buy into the enterprise. And so, when they vouch for the meat purveyors, their testimony is almost wholly without authority. Ask yourself: does this steer get it? Does he have the slightest inkling what’s going on? Does he have the power to banish anyone’s doubts, to entice any consumer? He’s just a sad hick used and abused by ruthless city folk.