It's not suicide food. In fact, we can't muster the kind of charitable sensibility required to call it food of any kind. Regardless, this is the "food" we've been "missing" from our diet these many yearning years.
The sources of the photos have been intentionally omitted. If you recognize an image as originating with your company, and if you would like to confess, contact us and we will include your name.
And now, time for us to eat our heart out. Oh, the professionally prepared glories we could be enjoying!
Sick on a paper plate. This is either some kind of barbecued experiment gone wrong or a last-minute save that prevented Tiger from vomiting on the carpet.
An unidentifiable, charred horror. Next to the vibrant, living green, red, and yellow of the bell peppers, the mummified main course would appear to be evidence of arson. (It is, purportedly, a pig's shoulder.)
This one? A baked potato (go on, we're listening), under a butterglob (never mind), a sprinkling of pencil shavings (?), and a scoop of congealed nasty. Sure. No.
Sweep up tire scraps from the shoulder of I-90. Add bleach and let bake in a laundry hamper for two to three months. Deposit scraps on piece of white bread.
And? And then what? Eat it?!
Conclusion: We wouldn't eat this stuff with someone else's mouth. Nice try, meat makers.