Roc City Rib Fest

It's the second-largest pig we've ever seen, falling behind this world dominator and just above the Brooklyn Behemoth.

Casually leaning against Rochester, New York's Chase Tower, this mutant provides the perfect opportunity for our annual (or, you know, monthly?) discussion of the Submissive Dominant.

This pig dwarfs the Rochester skyline. He is a pig of Godzillish proportions who could easily topple the greater metropolitan area, festooning it with rubble and crushed bodies, without breaking a sweat. Or he could simply leave the city, swatting away helicopters like flies, and find a safe grove in which to grow old.

But what does the thoroughly domesticated Goliath do instead? He smiles for the camera, and cheerfully symbolizes the death and consumption of pigs, secure in his supposed shades-wearing coolness!

This is the fundamental discrepancy of suicidefoodism, the disconnect between What Is Rational and What Merely Is.

Mansfield Village Kid's Fishing Rodeo

Now this just ain't straight shootin'!

If we didn't know better, we'd think this Indiana fishing rodeo involved fish whipping out the ol' lassoo and snagging themselves a cow. Or something. (Remember Fish Tickle, a similarly misleading fish-related deal?)

See, because—stay with us here—this event does not actually give fish the chance to act out their lifelong dream of being cowboys. No, the fish rodeo gives them the chance merely to be the same old bottom-of-the-barrel victim they always are.

They don't buckle on the ol' gunbelt and prove their dominance in nature's arena. They're not active participants at all. They're objects.

In other words, they are the target, not the shooter.







Addendum: Yes, we are aware that the proceeds from this event are to be directed to a children's research hospital. That's charitable and kind. The imagery? Uncharitable and unkind.

Reindeer Meat Novelty

It's not Christmas without all the trappings of the season. The holly, the scent of nutmeg, and Rudolph the Dead Ghost Reindeer and his collection of lurid red reindeer steaks!

Many of Santa's flying friends are here, in post-life, food form: Vixen sirloin, Prancer porterhouse, Rudolph round steak, and the others.

If you look closely you can even see Saint Nick, that elfin old ghoul, sneaking around with his sack in one hand and a bloody slab of reindeer meat in the other!

We can only assume that the Naughty/Nice split has become complicated in these modern times. The Nice get toys, the Naughty get coal, and the Unspeakable get raw meat that once had a name!

That this gag (you ain't kidding!) is in the service of yuletide festivities sends a chill up our spine.

Beefcember Fest

His sack bulging with beef, his magical animal-cooker pulled through the Christmas Eve skies by flying livestock, the crummiest-ever Santa Claus prepares to leave children teetering between befuddlement and disgust.

The New Rudolph's nose lights up the night, the enchanted chickens flap their superfluous wings, and the patron saint of dripping, bloody giftwrap prepares to heave chunks of his former family down the world's chimneys.

So, you know. Merry Christmas?

Diva Q

Another washed-up old floozy willing to peddle the last thing she's got that anybody'll buy.

While we admire her go-getter spirit—she will get herself killed and eaten if it's the last thing she does!—we are nevertheless saddened to see a sow in her golden years resorting to such desperate measures.

She leans against the Killing Fence, a wink on her big, lascivious face. There aren't a lot of comers out there in the middle of the field, but she's there from morning to night. (Except for those 40 or 50 smoke breaks.)

She hopes that if she waits long enough, someone will bite. You know, literally.

(Thanks to Dr. Bea for the referral.)

KC's Rib Shack

It's a treasure trove of recycled "jokes" and thrice-told tales!

For instance: Vegetarians are limp-wristed sissy-hippies.

Much like working-class people who can be conned into supporting the whims of their corporate masters, Porky the KC's pig appears to have been deceived into backing the goals of the "meatetarians" who won't rest until his bones have been picked clean.

You see, Porky has somehow gotten it into his head that the "annoying" vegetarians are the real threat, and they need to be neutralized.

It's not his killers and grillers he's worried about. It's the self-righteous pork-abstainers that've got him riled up. How dare they refuse him!

Porky, they're playing you. And then they're eating you.

Happy Third Suicidefoodiversary: a digression

It's been three years. Three long, please-please-make-it-stop years. In that time, we've given our in-house statistician plenty to chew on. And this is what he spat back out:

The Harper's Suicidefood Index.

Number of posts up to now: 559

Percentage of all posts involving pigs: 57.4%

Percentage of all posts involving cows: 23.6%

Percentage of all posts involving goats: 1.4%

Percentage of all posts involving snakes: .54%

Number of mustaches featured: 18

Number of stripper and/or showgirl animals featured: 5

Number of handicapped animals featured: 7

Number of royal animals featured: 19

Percentage of royal animals that are pigs: 63.2%

Percentage that are fish: 10.5%

Percentage that are crabs: 5.3%

Ratio of posts referencing soldiers to posts referencing hippies: 7:4

Ratio of posts referencing frogs to posts referencing golf: 4:3

Average noose rating (of all rated posts): 2.8

Percentage of all 5-noose posts featuring inappropriate sexual content: 24.0%

Average number of comments for each 1-noose post: 2.5

Average number of comments for each 5-noose post: 5.0

Percentage of all posts containing material referred to us by readers: 24.9%

Number of people who have threatened to report us to the police: 1

Number of wedding photographers who have suggested we be beaten until we leak: 1

Thunder Smoked

We are witness to the birth of one of the Movement's foundational myths, something that could finally make sense of the senselessness we have grudgingly accepted.

On the third day, when the Raven did alight upon the Crag, Hog-Thor beheld the sacred Crucible.

Then did Hog-Thor summon forth the many-tined Forks, summoned he them from the Thunder.

Kindled the Flame did Hog-Thor, kindling it with his enchanted Tongs.

Hog-Thor looked within the Smoke, and a Vision did he see.

Ranks of hogs, their Tusks like gleaming Blades, leapt atop the Coals. Again did Hog-Thor bring down upon them the Lightning that they may be cooked, their skin burnished like unto gold. Smoked by the very Thunder, the pigs found passage to the Lands of Joyful Rooting.

And even now, these centuries beyond, the pigs still dream of Death with Glory. Only the bravest, boldest, and best among them can hope to be cooked in Hog-Thor's smoking Oven.

When you see a Star, do not look away. For that is a fallen hog, and he smiles on you.

(Thanks to Dr. Bea for the referral.)

Golden Isles Barbeque Blast

You look on the Golden Isles Barbeque Blaster and see… what? Exuberance, maybe? Joy, perhaps?

We see a mind overthrown.

The fool thing has clambered aboard a rocket and blasted himself into space! And why? To find new worlds to be conquered by? He hasn't had enough of his victimhood on this one?

Pig, trust us. Things are bad enough down here.

The Blaster doesn't strike us as the type to listen to reason.

Paying homage to Slim Pickens's Major "King" Kong in Stanley Kubrick's classic tale of paranoia and bureaucracy, Dr. Strangelove, Ol' Goldie is the very picture of insanity.















The resemblance is eerie.

Miscellaneous Musical Sausages

Sausages, having passed through the tedium so familiar to all living things, have emerged on the brighter side.

Now the air's a little sweeter, each day a little easier. And check it out: the band has gotten back together! Yes, things are looking up!

Having been given new "life" as the aggregated remains of the formerly living, their "souls" are filled to the casing-breaking point. And so they play!

They drum, they toot, they honk. They jam.

(Thanks to Dr. Bea for the referral.)







Addendum: You know, they're like the Valleydale pigs, but for the younger generation!

Pollos Canto Alegre

Oh, what a beautiful morning! The sun is shining, the chicken parts are snug in their plastic wrap, and the birds are singing their canto alegre, their "cheerful song!"

Knowing that the limbs they used to call their own are now ensconced so lovingly, so antiseptically, so commercially, the pollos can't help warbling.

Her eyelashes flashing, this chicken gazes approvingly at the Styrofoam tray of legs. She can hardly wait until that's her down there, her own legs and wings efficiently and impersonally arranged and packaged.


And do you know what else makes chickens sing a cheerful song of grateful gladness?

The thought of hanging, plucked and processed, from the (dis)assembly line hooks while skilled inspectors caress them with rubber gloves!

They're just romantics at heart!

Elanco

Just look at the cute little investment!

Have you ever seen an investment with such a happy, little smile?

With Elanco, you can protect him and make sure nothing happens to him.

Remember: "Elanco products enhance animal health, wellness, and performance"! And before you ask, no, performance doesn't mean, like, juggling. It means putting on weight admirably and economically.

Lest you suspect that the Elanco folks might not actually care about the well-being of the pigs they protect, read what they have to say about respiratory disease and how keenly they feel its effects:

Healthy, heavier nursery pigs improve returns all the way to market. But respiratory disease that slows growth and increases variation can cost you plenty.

Disease, as we all know, can increase variation (gasp!) and play hob with your bottom line.

Keep smiling, little pig. Elanco's looking out for their profit-and-loss statements. That is to say, you. They're looking out for you. That's what we meant.

Buck's Naked BBQ Steakhouse & Juke Joint

The pig—we are assuming that rodentine creature is, evidence to the contrary, a pig—is enamored of his naked buttocks. He wants you to admire them, to touch them, and, we fear, to eat them.

Moreover, he is sitting upon the Buck's sign—yes—with his bare bottom. Unhygienic and borderline aggressive, Buck is determined to die. He's just not willing to sacrifice his clothing-optional lifestyle on the road to his wonderful (and wonderfully naked) death.

This is one of the least effective, yet most naked, come-ons we've seen in a while.

Arbor Acres

At Arbor Acres, you can succeed. You can achieve your fullest potential and be the chicken you were meant to be.

Climb the podium to the Winner's Roost, Mr. or Mrs. Gold-medal Poultry. Look down upon the weak, the scrawny, the stringy and inedible.

Your comb sculpted into a fleshy wreath of laurel leaves, your biceps bulging, your inferiors wither in your shadow.

Your breast is tender, your drumsticks succulent. The others are all feathers and feet, but you! You are somebody! You are the Ideal Fowl!

"Who's the boss now?"

You are, champ!

Now how about a victory lap through the scalding tank, and then we'll get you dismembered.

(Thanks to Dr. Bea for the referral.)

Suicide Barnyard: a digression

According to a letter published in the November 30 New Yorker and written by a Mr. G. of Salt Lake City, Utah, it could hardly be more plain that animals want to be killed on small, family farms:

Is it better for aging animals to suffer, blind, arthritic, starving, or cancerous until merciful death? I grew up on a farm and can say with certainty that our animals gave their bodies in gratitude for a well-cared-for life. (Emphasis added.)

Not only do the animals participate consciously in some sort of exchange of services, à la Derrick Jensen's "bargain", but it is as if the entire process—their breeding, raising, and slaughter—were something the animals themselves established!

Can the humans be blamed simply for following the orders of their livestock masters?

Ketchum Manufacturing Inc.

It is by now a truism that happy livestock enjoy being sacrificed for your pleasure. So widely recognized and acknowledged, so extensively documented that it hardly bears repeating. What is news to us, however, is that livestock are so enamored of the entire birth-to-plate process. Everything about it gives them delight. In other words, it's not just the dying that they love; it's the very fact of their subjugation!

Now we can understand what's going on in these images from Ketchum Manufacturing Inc. For in them we see the joy of the enslaved, for whom slavery is not merely the water they swim in, so to speak, but the very staff of life.

It's all here. Before this sow's identification as consumable property, she is apprehensive. After receiving a firm smack with the sow body identification system—the "slap tattooer," a happy device sporting rows of spikes—she is relieved. Her identity as a specific, specified object has been confirmed and ratified and made permanent.








Now, this pig benefits from an extra little something. There's being born into a pen. There's the pleasure of being an edible cog in a machine dedicated to your destruction. But livestock aspires to more! For instance, what about creating profit for your owners? Somehow, the Ketchum ear tattooers let a pig do just that!

(Can you read the copy? Did you really think we would need to make up a phrase like "birth-to-plate"? The suicidefoodists have been at this business a long time.)












Precocious piglets and goats love this stuff too!