This is what happens to a basic theme in the hands of a master of the form!
Any pig can "apply" barbecue sauce to himself in the "pleasant" expectation of a grueling death. But this is the minimum. This is not "A" material. This is hardly even trying.
Enter Porky Pitts. This pig is putting on a clinic! He is taking us all to school, clueing us in to the magnificent potential of a pig on a psychotic bender.
A dash of sauce behind the ears, a coy smile, an "I'm ready for my close-up" moment? Snore. Porky Pitts shows us what is possible and thereby restores a weary world's belief in suicide food. In its sickness. Its utter tastelessness. Its demonic power to change reality and help us understand that up is down, and how come we never saw it so clearly before?
Porky empties the bottle on his head with rabid abandon. The briquettes are glowing and he's got places to go, makers to meet! He can't die soon enough—you can see the horrible ecstasy in his eyes.
Porky Pitts is a culture warrior. He champions an idea: a delusional, depraved pig in overalls can want to be grilled and consumed! And that's okay. There's nothing untoward about it. Nothing objectionable. Porky Pitts has opened our minds.
God bless you, Porky Pitts. Now hop on the coals and let's get you cooked.