We admit it: we can almost begin to have a glimmer of a hint of understanding when it comes to the sexy sow motif so familiar to students of suicidefoodism. (Her, for instance.) That is to say, we understand that sexual imagery exerts a powerful pull. But this is beyond us.
We have searched, fruitlessly, for any trace of appeal. This image appears to contain no enticement whatsoever.
What are we promised? After all, every advertisement makes a promise, usually a cynical one. What does the cruel doctor promise? What secret fantasy, hidden even to our own hearts, does he promise to unlock?
The fantasy of a callous, sneering surgeon flicking ashes into our gaping chest cavities? An emergency room visit made nightmarish through blatant disregard?
When we need help, a reassuring word, the strength provided by a kind glance, what does the Doctor give us instead? Pig ribs and a bad attitude.
And wait a minute! Presumably, he's a doctor for pigs, yes? So just whose ribs is he rushing to the table? The botched appendectomy in 204?
And when he runs out of patients whose care he can similarly "mismanage"? He'll hook up the IV to himself to supply the finest rack of ribs yet.
Addendum: Remember Dr. Chuckie, the Doctor of BBQ's predecessor?