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.)