Hallmark Poultry Processors Ltd.

He's the cock of the walk, the Hallmark Poultry Processors Ltd. rooster is!

He's got the world by the horns. It's all laid out there in front of him, a land covered in gold dust. All he's got to do is bend down and scoop it up! No wonder he's whistling a tune as he moseys along.

Yes sir, life is good. He's got a hat, a bandanna, even a holstered six-shooter! Matter of fact, the only things he doesn't have are self-respect and the will to live, but if you can't buy 'em down to the Woolworth's, he's not interested. And so he'll go on whistling his tune right up until the second the axe falls on his humble, despairing neck.

Again we wonder what has become of the masculine icons of the past. A cowboy should be out on the range cursing at cattle and drinking campfire coffee, not lollygagging and waiting for some fellas in suits to gun him down. It just ain't right. But in Suicidefoodistan, nothing's right. Everything's for sale and nothing's worth a damn.

(Thanks to Dr. Becci for the referral and to Dr. halv99 for the photo.)







Addendum: Is this Hallmark company related to this Hallmark company? If so, they've got quite a way with a logo!

Big Belly BBQ

Look into the eyes of horror! (The one that isn't winking, at least.)

Our paunchy pig's words could more accurately be rendered: "Never trust your BBQ to a non-cannibal."

This villain reminds us of no one so much as the Rosie's Vermont Beef Jerky bull, one of the first Judases we ever featured.

Like Rosie's bull, this monster is proud of his depredations. Having gorged himself on his fellows, he doesn't hide his face. No, he pats his pork belly, happy to be identified by his aberrant morals.

And after a lifetime of cramming his own kind down his throat, what then? There is nothing left but ritual suicide, to atone for his sins. Or perhaps not to atone for them, but instead to underscore that atonement is, at the last, impossible.

That we are meant to see him as a reliable narrator, a figure worth trusting, throws the whole enterprise into question. No one could repudiate his own authority more emphatically, more hideously, than Big Belly.

Juicy Butts

Another one? Another pigwhore pushing the barbecue?

Like the others (her and her, for instance), this hussy has been living rough. Clingy half-shirt, filthy stockings, frayed mini skirt, garish make-up—she's full of class like a heap of scrapple is full of antioxidants.

Yes, we should be over it. We have gone through this so many (many!) times. But the sheer absurdity of it—the sheer absurd, sordid weirdness—still surprises us.

What is the actual message? If a pig must be depicted condoning the consumption of pork—and that certainly does seem to be a necessary condition of suicide food—why must she be such a deliberately trashy specimen? Are they just piling on the transgressive touchstones? Is it intended as a warped justification for the imminent violation?

It's as though we're seeing two parallel versions of "She was asking for it," one granting the illusion of sexual permission, the other giving license to do violence: "What do you expect—she was dangling the meat right in front of my face!" is indistinguishable from "What do you expect—she was shaking her ass right in front of my face!"

This is a world of men and objects. A world, therefore, where anything—everything—can be justified.

(Thanks to Dr. Bea for the referral.)






Addendum: We're guessing that Juicy is kin to the Bubba's Ribs & Q floozy. (Thanks, Dr. Carrie.)

Crawfish Boil Championships

What to make of the crabpot vessel bobbing on a soupy sea?

Look at the crew of the good ship Suicide sailing, sailing over the bounding broth!

How would you characterize them? Do they appear to be fleeing those who would kill them for sport? Are they weak from horror? Are they desperate with the fear and apprehension of the fugitive?

Not even close.

While two of them pull apathetically at their celery oars, the others relax with bottles of beer. They're not escaping. They're pleasure-boating!

Or—who knows?—maybe they're in search of even bigger pots and even hotter waters into which to hurl themselves.

Rooster Cogburn Ostrich Ranch

More historical revisionism from the suicidefoodists.

We've seen their many post-modern reinterpretations of cowboys before—not to mention the occasional pirate and superhero—but this example is especially galling.

Because Rooster Cogburn the Ostrich is modeled after John Wayne's iconic roughneck lawman from the film of the same name, which was also the sequel to True Grit. (We need not mention that they got the eyepatch on the wrong eye.)

The cinematic Rooster Cogburn was gruff and tough, the epitome of rakish manliness.

Eula Goodnight (Katharine Hepburn): Just to whom do you think you are talking, Mr. Marshall?

Rooster Cogburn: You is to whom I think I am talking, Ma'am.

Eula Goodnight: It's true that you are larger than me... but only physically.

Rooster Cogburn: In this case, my dear lady, that is enough.

Eula Goodnight: Do you mean to tell me that you are prepared to use brute force?

Rooster Cogburn: That is exactly what I mean to tell you.

Eula Goodnight: (pause) Oh.

What does it say when a character like that is co-opted by the flightless bird industry?

It says they will never stop! Nothing is off-limits. Every symbol of fierce independence is prime for expropriation. When even The Duke—the paragon of the cowboy ethos—can be transformed from outsider archetype to uncomplaining shill and no one blinks, the Movement might already have won.







Addendum: Of course, just like the late John Wayne, "Ostriches are very feed efficient and take minimal land to raise."

Crawdad Creek BBQ

It's as though every link in the chain of being is content. The hat-tipping farmer/pig is happy to represent a barbecuing concern. The crawdad is happy to have been fished from the creek and delivered into a land of deathly salvation.

(Brief Interlude: This all takes place in Boiling Spring Lakes, North Carolina. Does that mean the pig is fixing to dunk the cheerful crawdad in the boiling spring? In other words, is he hauling him out, or getting ready to put him in? Regardless, in this context, Boiling Spring Lakes is the most cruelly apt name we've seen in a good long while. Remember the "Noose" River?)

Back to our analysis: Regardless of its crustacean-boiling properties, Crawdad Creek and Boiling Springs Lake are surely magical places. They transform hogs—hogs who identify with their human overlords—into willing participants in the dark rite known as barbecue.

Big Mo & the Aho BBQ 'n' Gals

The meat merchants will not rest until they have penetrated every conceivable market niche. Here, it would seem, they are going after the proponents (or perhaps merely the sympathizers) of polygamist clone cults.

And going after them hard!

The benevolent Husband/Leader, with his ceremonial burger flipper, proudly presents his harem of sows. (Sticklers might insist that the females are not actually identical, and should not, therefore, be referred to as "clones." To them we say only: Look past the trivial differences in hairstyle. Attend instead to the faces, proportions, and personalities—or the identically exhibited lack of same.)

All of them, even the deranged offspring (of Wife #2, we believe) are plumb tickled to be a part of the barbecue lineup.

Apparently, the purpose of this particular polygamist clone cult is to breed a nation of foodstuffs. Lo! Their reward is right here on Earth: death—quick and painless or not, either way—and then the Flames of the Grill.

Yea verily, life (or its nearest equivalent) is good! The harem will grow, the offspring will keep offspringing, and the grills will ever be fed!

(Thanks to Dr. Bea for the referral.)

Suicide Snacks: quickies 2

It's time for us to take a little break and climb down off of the treadmill. Our long sermons leave us winded. Enjoy these bite-sized examples of suicide food. (And when you're done, re-read the first installment of quickies!)



Not content with posthumously offering up their flesh, the Russell Meat Processing cow and pig volunteer the use of their living tongues and intestines for advertising purposes.



This Aberdeen Angus beef outfit doesn't need graphics to create an air of disquieting sexual innuendo. Words alone do the trick. Well-hung? Tender? Used in reference to cow carcasses hung to "age"?

To be fair, WH&T doesn't appear to see in their name even the hint of double entendre. Says their site: "All our beef is hung on the bone to mature for at least four weeks, five to ten days is typical in the UK. The hanging process allows enzymes longer to tenderise the meat and reduces moisture content, concentrating the flavour and preventing shrinkage during cooking." (Bone. Shrinkage. Snicker.)



Welcome to the world, little piglet! If you could just climb down from the… Yes, just… Can you untie the bundle? Great! Mind the semen now. Well! We're all very happy to see you. We're sure you're going to love it here on Earth. I see you've already met the stork. Yes, the place is really just filled with wonders! So! If you could go in there, right through the double doors? Yes, just follow the signs. Someone will be along shortly to kill you.




Childhood innocence is finally cast into the abyss! Along with the standard chicken, pig, and cow sacrifices, a teddy bear will be tossed onto the flames. He's been soaking for hours now in a mixture of barbecue sauce and tears.

Dixon May Fair

Suicide Food as interpreted by a visionary with the sensibilities of Hieronymus Bosch! Everywhere your gaze wanders, the quaint livestock fair is revealed as a nightmarish horrorscape!

Wheresoever you cast your gaze, new grotesques await you! All about the panopticon, demons lurk!

Behold!

1. The Trio of the Condemned. While the animals count their few remaining moments, the musicians play on, as uncaring as statues.

2. The incarnation of insanity. The world around him devolves into a hellish hallucination and he swings through the air in a bizarre simulation of joy.

3. Two cows—one a blue ribbon winner (she'll fetch a handsome price!)—lasciviously regard the taurine fiddler. Oblivious to looming catastrophe, they think only of procreating. Lust has overcome them and banished decency. Even amid the conflagration, their thoughts are ever on the bestial.

4. As if acknowledging that they'll never be able to outrun the falling hatchet, the motorcycle-riding hogs pause in their hedonism and face death with enthusiasm.

5. Meek and mild, these sheep will inherit only the whirlwind.

6. Ignorance personified, the goat, popcorn in hand, believes he's watching a harmless performance. He is unable to comprehend the enormity of what is before him.



7. Jitterbugging young chickens. The equivalent of fiddlers plying their craft while Rome burns?

8. A delusional chicken dances alongside her son in an updated retelling of Oedipus Rex.

9. A minstrel show? Oh, great.

10. The duck administers his own force-feeding.

Chicken in the Rough

This spokescock represents Chicken in the Rough, the world's first fried chicken franchise. Cue the trumpets!

In the prime of his life, out there on the links, he shows off a plump drumstick in Depression-era knickerbockers. Puffing away on his cigarette—the meat's smoked from the inside, one supposes—he is the picture of manliness.

And do you see? The rooster's priority—the one concern ruffling his feathers—is the ball's bad lie. He's in the rough, his round proceeding so poorly that he has snapped his putter. (Possibly using telekinetic powers?)

That he will be killed, hacked apart, breaded, and fried is not on his radar. His fate is a mere triviality compared with his do-or-die golf game! His apathy serves his masters well. This one won't kick up a fuss.

But linger not on the golfing cock! Turn instead to the caddie chick, that aspirational wundervictim! If all goes according to his fondest dreams for the future—"I'll gladly be fried for Chicken in the Rough!"—he will follow in the footsteps of his elders. He too will be dunked in boiling oil, thereby becoming part of the oldest fried chicken franchise's fabled history!

Dream big, little one. Dream big.

Oaks Head Ham

Oaks Head Ham presents a knife-wielding pig on a platter, his livid core on full display.

Were the boo-hooing pundits right? Are we witnessing the coarsening of the culture? Or is this self-slicing pig merely an indication of just how entrenched suicidefoodism has become? Perhaps the Movement's tropes and signifiers are so familiar now that children happily dissect them with all the wisdom of seasoned postmodernists?

As it turns out, the Oaks Head Ham is presented by the KIDS unlimited television show as an ironic comment on generic consumer culture. (No, really, it is.) The ad is a parody, showing on their website alongside fake commercials for "Lower Back Tattoo Brandie" and "Cor-rectal" (for "chronic butt itch").

Still, the whole affair makes us uneasy. For one thing, we doubt children are savvy enough to register the insanity of fake suicidefood or see in it a commentary on the real thing. In our experience, adults are uninterested in the issues raised by the animals-dying-to-be-eaten phenomenon.

And the tone of KIDS unlimited humor leaves us skeptical that they were aiming for anything higher than a cheap laugh. Rather, we suspect that the audience isn't getting any message beyond the yuks.

(Thanks to Dr. Elaine for the referral.)








Addendum: Rest assured, if the ad weren't intended as parody—or even just gross-out humor—this would have received a 5-noose rating.