Can you spot the offending element in this image? The especially offending element in the image, that is. (The entire thing is an offense against decency, but only a conventional one.)
No, we mean the detail that lifts this picture out of the beginner class and into the intermediate.
It's not the chaps, unpleasant as they are. And it's not the spurs. Nor the cow's beef-eating grin, nor the pig's trouble-maker smirk.
We jest. Of course you know what it is. The branding iron. Freed from his Omaha, Nebraska, sty, if only on a River City Roundup Barbeque Challenge furlough, the pig is overtaken by rage. A vicious anti-animal fugue, intoxicating for the opportunity it offers to be on the other side of the branding iron, the prod, and the whip.
How casual they all are, leaning against a fencepost, fondling that metal shaft, perching atop a hat. (Chickens, as you know by now, are often afterthoughts in the suicidefoodist imagination.) One could hardly tell that they are gripped by thoughts of vengeance, of violence, of lashing out just one time before subjecting themselves, at last, to the cruel ministrations of their destinies.