We find ourselves, again, at the crossroads of life and death. Sex and violence. Joy and misery. Creation and destruction.
Though they be intertwined strands in the tapestry of existence, in the world of the suicidefoodist, these opposing forces are made from the same stuff. That cruel philosophy employs not a tapestry as its central, defining metaphor, but a smothering, rubberized blanket. As such, every logical distinction—the very power of one thing to be itself and not something else—is blotted out, hidden from the sun, annihilated.
In this spot for Avecrem chicken-based products, a saucy bird does a tasty burlesque number for a crowd of leering roosters. The feathers fly—literally—as she takes it all off. The roosters gape and applaud. And then the farmer's arm is thrust through a hole in the henhouse wall. A remorseless fist grabs her by the neck, yanks her away, and does her in.
Ever mindful of the toxic blame-the-victim fallacy, still we must speak our truth:
The chicken was asking for it. Although, among scholars of "food" animals' suicidal inclinations, this is hardly controversial.
Stripping, in exactly the fashion guaranteed to inflame her human master, her feathers plucked like so many frilly underthings. Stripping, in the very place designated for her ease until such time as her human master chose to kill her.
And this is exactly what happened! Dunked in a pot, there to be transformed into (we believe) cubes of some sort of compressed chicken powder.
Here is the commercial, if you must see for yourself.
(Thanks to Dr. Kaitlen for the referral.)