Cluck-n-Stuff: a "what the hell?" digression

The plenary session has convened, testimony has been introduced, objections have been made, sustained, and overruled. And after all the finger-pointing and name-calling (things can get pretty heated around here), nothing has been decided. We still don't know what the hell this is. Can it properly be called suicide food? What do we do with this?

In the end, the executive committee adjudicated the matter and found Cluck-n-Stuff to be wholly contemptible, yet not satisfying the criteria of suicide food. Still, its abhorrence merits attention as another of our digressions—our sporadic series of semi-official posts—if nothing else.

What are Cluck-n-Stuff™ Beer Butt Chicken Heads? Something worse than you could ever invent on your own (without first suffering considerable head trauma). To wit: false chicken heads you insert into the gaping neck holes of the dead chickens you are cooking, after jamming open cans of beer where their anuses used to be. Do you suspect this to be another of those crazy conspiratorial vegan delusions? If only!

No, these Beer Butt Chicken Heads are all too real, not to mention vile and hauntingly pathetic.

And such a convoluted raison d'être! What need do they satisfy? What wish do they fulfill? Is it simply the suicidefoodist's dearest hope, that the animals we subject to all our diabolical contrivances are, still, somehow, in spite of it all, pleased? That their souls, at least, are unscathed, and will speak well of us in their afterworld? That we can restore them to symbolic wholeness as a means of propitiation?

Or is there something more sinister behind the C-n-S BBCHs? ("B-Bitches," for short?) Do they express nothing more poignant than the drive to mock the victims of our trespasses?

Sadly, turning to the product's creator offers little insight. (Be warned: he speaks about himself in the third person.)

"While cooking his Beer Butt Chicken and having an ice cold frosty beer he kept checking the chicken for doneness. After lifting the grill lid for the third time he decides that there is something horribly wrong with the chicken. No, it wasn’t the way the chicken was cooking; it was the way the chicken was looking. There it was just sitting there without a head; it was at that point that this man had a light bulb moment. He said, 'This chicken needs a head!' and so he went off to begin creating."

His motivations are unclear: salve for a battered conscience, offering to emissaries of another world, or cruel joke?

We've placed our bet.