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…
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