On Hiatus

We'll be out of town, and away from a computer, until April 6. This dereliction was unavoidable. We ask for patience and understanding.

Until our return, please visit these selections from our archives:

Religious suicide food

Smutty suicide food

Sporty suicide food

Rockin' suicide food

Regal suicide food

British suicide food

Kansas City T-Bones

From the grim stockyards and meat processing plants of the heartland come the Kansas City T-Bones. They’re not only the perfect counterparts to the Omaha Beef football squad, they’re also another textbook example of Ironic Aggressor Sublimation, a doctrine even we are growing tired of explaining.

The identification with the victim—and not merely a victim, but a slaughtered and butchered victim, an Edible Martyr—appears illogical. Aren’t sports designations meant to inspire unity within and dread without? The Giants must be mighty, the Vikings ruthless, and the Lions without fear. And the T-Bones? What of the T-Bones?

They must be… dead? Mere parts, disembodied and utterly nonthreatening! Where is the appeal? How does such a name stoke fan loyalty or the necessary killer instict among the players?

Look beyond sport. The meaning of the T-Bones cannot be found on the diamond. It exists solely within the cult of suicidefoodism, where man’s vaunted, yet precarious authority must be defended, reinforced, endlessly celebrated. By assuming the guise of the defeated, the T-Bones proclaim their belief that their supremacy is self-evident—a statement only the victor can afford to make.

Still, to the unbeliever, the T-Bones name is a failure, transparent in its desperation.

Strike One: The T-Bones mascot is named Sizzle, a moniker intended to invoke the victim. Why then is he shown at bat, with such grit and determination? Are we meant to quail at the sight of this, this food? It arouses only pity. And disgust.

Strike Two: T-Bones merchandise can be purchased in the online "meat locker." The T-Bones don't go all-out with the dead animal theme, the way the Omaha Beef do, but it's still unsettling.

Strike Three: The T-Bones children’s club is the bizarrely apostrophed 'Lil Chops. We will never understand the urge to cast children in the role of foodstuffs. (See here and here.)

T-Bones? Yer out!




(Thanks to Dr. Ted for the referral.)

Chicken on the Run

You're familiar, perhaps, with the uplifting 2000 movie "Chicken Run" from Aardman Animations?

Where a ragtag band of never-say-die chickens plot their escape from the Tweedy farm before they can be turned into chicken pies? And we're forced to confront the truth that the chickens' drive to live mirrors our own? That their comical ingenuity reflects a deeper unity of life?

Yeah, that's not what this is.

No, appearances to the contrary, this chicken on the run embraces the system that enslaves him, attempting to lend an air of legitimacy to the operation.

He doesn't run from the chicken-killers. He runs for them, to serve up your order while it's still hot. That's the only thing that drives this numskull.

Note that this "ain't just chicken." No, it would seem that Chicken on the Run also serves… What are those? Baseball mitts? Pan pipes? Ostrich feet?

Hold the phone. We think those might be… Are they? They're supposed to be pig ribs. Good luck with that, Chicken on the Run chicken.

Colorado Pork and Hops Challenge

We have seen such horrors lately, and expended so much vitriol, and felt so much anguish that we are now just worn out.

All we can muster for this obese beer-and-suicide enthusiast is pity.

We've seen his kind (as well as alcoholic pigs) before. He actually seems to believe that by dressing up like the creatures who would eat him—by eating of his own people—he will be spared.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps he's not trying to ingratiate himself to the humans, but instead has simply lost the drive to live. His smile a mask, his belt buckle an anchor, and his mug of beer his oracle, the pig is waiting for the end. This is his version—a tarnished and drunken version, to be sure—of dignity.







Addendum (4/09/08): This earlier image of the CP&H Challenge shows a shaky hog who needed a little liquid courage to carry on.













Addendum 2 (12/11/08): This cowboy gets around!

Rachachuros Seasoning

We have been in the business of exposing and elucidating suicidefoodism for a long time now.

We have presented hundreds of mascots, logos, and cartoons.

We have steeled ourselves to the contempt so often expressed for animals.

We have made our way through the muck of animal-hatred, small mindedness, and poor taste.

We have dredged the swamp of sickness to uncover the truth.

We have seen it all.

Or so we thought.

Welcome to the bottom. This is the sewer of suicide food. We pray—tears streaming from eyes shut tight—that this is the worst we will ever see. Just a glance at this and our sanity trembles and teeters. This is an undeniable obscenity.

A duck—dead and plucked—entices us with (human!) bedroom eyes. The goal of her seduction: inflaming our appetites to the point where we cannot resist devouring her remains in a spasm of unquenchable sexual hunger.

"The temptation of taste," the ad copy reads. The triumph of debased tastelessness, is more like it.













These depictions of the duck, the pig, and the chicken are opposed to every tender feeling, to every noble intention. They establish a zenith of inhumanity, dedicating a decadent temple of perversion. They encourage adherents to worship their sacrifices and then violate them.

Please forgive us for bringing these pictures to your attention.

(Thanks to Dr. Liz for the referral.)






Addendum: If we were not a signatory to the charter of Outraged Commenters on Suicidefoodist Imagery, and thereby limited to a five-noose scale, we would award the erotic Rachachuros corpses a minimum of eight.

Addendum 2: The photos above are the worst, but not the first, horrendous advertising campaign perpetrated on behalf of Rachachuros Seasoning. The duck to the right is from a series of ads meant to illustrate just how delicious the product is: dead animals coated in it might wish to eat themselves! Another home run!

Sprayberry's Barbecue

Oh, dear lord.

Do you see what the good folks at Sprayberry's have done here? Can you—sane reader—conceive of a more inappropriate illustration to accompany the "baby back ribs" section of a menu? Could there be a more inappropriate illustration? If you can imagine one, please, in the name of all that is decent, please keep it to yourself.

Here, a diapered infant pig—how like a human infant he is drawn!—is meant to whet your appetite for "baby" back ribs. This is a horror of the rankest sort. To suggest that infanticide is now acceptable suicidefoodist iconography!

Understand, our objection to this is different from our objection to veal. Yes, when veal is on the menu, it is juvenile animals who are consumed. Their short lives are pledged to the service of the uncaring masses. But Sprayberry's little babyberry is not a "juvenile." He is depicted as an actual baby, with a rattle and everything! We are surprised that Sprayberry's did not give him a name and let him further personify (and degrade) the sacrosanct institution of babyhood!

Bonus information: Babyberry also appears on the children's menu. "May we start you kiddies off with a baby much like yourself, a baby who likewise sees the world through the clear eyes of innocence? Who yearns to discover the world and whose playful nature captivates all who meet him? Wonderful! And to drink?"

When Handling Livestock… Part 2

One post is not enough to plumb When Handling Livestock...'s depths. We still have much to say, much to learn, and much to regret.

When we last met, we discussed the post-War pamphlet's raison d'être—to bask in America's newfound authority and to lay the groundwork for a corrupt ethic.

We would like to lead off this session with an examination of a pernicious theme:

Farm animals are the equivalent of (human) employees.

We label this pernicious not because the animals are undeserving of respect and consideration. No! We find the suggestion offensive because it is so blatantly disregarded by those who make it! Are employees forced onto trucks, gently or otherwise? Are they routinely executed? (Routinely? No.) And yet this is what When Handling Livestock... would have you believe.











For see the hog sanding his own bed for the long drive to The End. See the cows cheerfully repairing the fence that keeps them prisoner!

Even when the pamphlet is content not to state the "livestock = loyal employee" equation, it is promulgating the idea that the animals are, at the very least, essentially human. Animals, it happens, prefer steps—just like people! (Or, just like hobos, at any rate. And what tale have they told the pigs? "Sure, tie up your bindles. You'll be able to unpack in an hour or so, when you get to the new plant.")

Striking, isn't it, how reluctant the pamphleteers are to take note of the conclusion implied by their premise. Do animals also, like people, prefer not to be concussed, dispatched, and slaughtered? The pamphlet does not say.

And look at this scene! The hog-handlers, in their uniforms with the rolled cuffs, are playfully slapping their hogs with "canvas slappers"… in moderation!

Nothing to be alarmed at. It's just good-natured frat-house hijinks. Again, though: just like people!



And finally, one last piece of animals-are-people-too nonsense.

Yes! ONE Bruise Is ONE Too Many! The poor hobbling, bandaged pig! The convalescing sheep! The sling-wearing cow!

Indeed, one bruise is too many. And why? It signals your callous and abusive treatment costs you money.

Their hollow effigy of "care" goes up in flames. The dollar is their only criterion. And they boast about it.














(Thanks again to Dr. Jonna for the referral.)

When Handling Livestock...

This document, which first reappeared here, has been making the rounds lately. Now, in an endearing burst of me-tooism we would find cloying if it came from someone else, it's our turn.

We give you When Handling Livestock... "Easy Does it"!

Proud achievement of thinkers, key to ageless mystery, this pamphlet is the Rosetta Stone of the suicide food movement. Its relative antiquity and its completeness make it an invaluable resource, one that students of the field will be mining for years to come.

In it we see all of the motifs we have come to describe as banal and irksome, and yet, somehow, here they appear novel and almost innocent:

The grateful “food” animal, the livestock treated as citizen and chattel simultaneously, and self-interest disguised in the cheap finery of genuine concern; all of these are on display. And unashamedly so. The tract, after all, was born in the heady post-War years, when a newly canonized United States believed it held all the promise for a better future, all the answers to life’s—the world’s—questions.

How to feed a hungry nation? How to maximize profit? How to harness Nature itself (that most useful of subordinates)? America knew all.

With a precision that only efficiency experts could generate, and only numbers embody, she would lead the way. Combining the zeal of the reformer and a suicidefoodist philosophy, there was nothing she could not accomplish!

This graphic—complete with pie charts!—is a prime example. Imagine the research that went into it, the breathless satisfaction with which the results were first announced.

"Fellas, we've done it! We now know, with mathematical certainty, that 62% of injuries to pigs are caused by their cruel masters. Oh, those hog handlers will get carried away with their canes, clubs, and kicks, won't they! And, say! Were you aware that 40% of injuries to sheep are the result of livestock-on-livestock violence?"

Yes, sir. With the right experimental design and reporting methodologies, senseless injuries to our heroic herds could become a thing of the past!

And, in a classic case of doing well while doing good, by heeding the humble requests of the animals, everyone would win. The bottom line would improve and the stock would finally feel validated. It all seems so contemporary. Who knew the pioneers of the Movement had such ahead-of-their-time ideas?

Do you see? We are encouraged to believe that the need for reform originated among the animals themselves! Yet even in this photo-op protest, the economic gain is emphasized. ("10 ways… to reduce these losses." Not "10 ways to reduce suffering." Or "10 ways to respect the animals in your care.") Not for decades would the suicidefoodists learn to conceal their true motives. Of course, this pamphlet is meant for insiders, not consumers, so deception is not essential.

We leave you today with this illustration, which perfectly captures the suicidefoodist aesthetic. Our huge hog rides in comfort and style. Only truly pampered pigs have their own parasols! He's on the way to "market" (how euphemistic), and he's delighted! Again, we have an example of the Submissive Dominant all too happy to accede to the wishes of his puny masters.

More analysis of our Rosetta Stone next time.

(Thanks to Dr. Jonna for the referral.)

Bob's Smoke Stack Ribs

Look out! A porciform demon is emerging through a portal into our earthly dimension!

Built of pain, he scoffs at the flames that would crisp his skin! He is a vision of vile pollution, a living, smog-filled corpse! When he…

Hold on.

Is that…? It is. That's a pig.

Sorry about that. But the blue pall. The monobrow. The preoccupied gaze. We can be forgiven for misreading the situation, for failing to see in this scene a plain, mortal pig.

But it's indisputable. There he is, lounging in the midst of a jolly fire. At ease. As unperturbed as any suicide food ever was.

He's happy to die for you, to suffer for you—of course!—but he does seem an odd choice for a mascot.

Still, while the singed, cyanotic pig is less than attractive, it might not even matter: Have you ever seen flesh hunks so formless? So impoverished of spirit? Oh, the temptation! To sink one's teeth into such stolid, petulant meat clods! With food like this, you don't need a pretty logo. The food does all the talking for you.

Incidentally, in the Bob's Smoke Stack Ribs hell-boar pig, we have a new title-holder in our long-running Ugly Appetite Killer competition!