Georgia Barbecue Classic

The simplicity is charming, huh?

He's got his knife and fork. He's smiling. He's in the barbecue. This guy is taking no chances. His worst fear is that he'll still be unconsumed when the barbecue fest is over. Somehow, the devouring hordes missed him in 2006. Not this year!

He is suicidefoodism's equivalent of the New Year's baby. Instead of a sash, he's got his heap of glowing coals. Instead of sharing cheerful wishes for a healthy and prosperous new year, it's heartfelt wishes to be eaten and digested.

"Afternoon," he drawls—and you can hear the red hills of Georgia in his voice. "I'd be obliged if you'd goose up the heat for me just a bit."

Eat, eat! He really doesn't mind. See? For God's sake, he has set up shop in the barbecue!

The pig's downhome savoir-faire and Red Top Mountain graciousness give you license to kill, grill, and eat your fill. And isn't that what suicide food in general and the institution known as the barbecue festival in particular are all about?

The chance to be among your fellows, gnawing as many parts off as many of God's creatures as you can manage in the festival's few golden hours (37 1/2 hours in the case of the Georgia Barbecue Classic).

Please, for the pig. Eat. It's the least you can do.