Cooking with Casseroles

The least practical cookbook of all time!

Judging by the cover—let's please just agree that that's going deep enough—one doesn't cook casseroles; one simply allows a troupe of livestock and crustaceans to pull together a routine and whip something up.

Hence, the cow juggles a couple mushrooms, a scallion, and a pineapple—along with a wok, a pot, and a tureened crab; the crab begins his pantomime act; and the sheep prepares for some classic sleight-of-hand.

And then, the finale: with a flourish, the cow leaps into the oven, the sheep flings herself onto a spit, and the crab drops the lid to seal in his "juices."

It promises to be a magical evening. And you didn't have to lift a finger!

(Thanks to Dr. JJ for the referral.)

Suicide Snacks: quickies 3

Even long-winded diatribadours need to take a break to catch their breath every now and then. That's where our popular series of "quickies" comes in.

(Have a nice visit with our most recent installment, won't you?)

We suppose that the Fogal Meat Market is located in the basement of Minitrue, Oceania's esteemed Ministry of Truth. For, you see, FOGAL = Fed On Grain And Love. Ah, yes. Love.

The stage that follows FOGAL is OBSAL. You know: Offed By Sledgehammer And Love?






The folks at Old Hickory have been tinkering with Mother Nature. Thus, their twisted handiwork: Progs! Pig/frog hybrids have long been the suicidefoodist's holy grail. Long-legged, floppy-footed, they spring onto the grill of their own accord. It's a revolution in animals that hasten to cook themselves!




Speaking of helpful entrées, Big Table Farm's silverware-sized pig trots right to your table with a replacement fork when you drop yours!







"When I take a sip of Cherry Blossom BarBQ Sauce, I get the sensation of being a morbidly obese hog stuffing its face with cherries until it chokes on cherry-flavored vomit!"

(Are those commercials even still on?)

Tip-Top

Down in old Nicaragua, there's a happy little chick named Tito.

He gamely epitomizes the "flavor of the good times." Well then—no wonder he's so cheerful, standing there with his fork, a tined scepter powerful enough to capture the very essence of blessed moments and imbue chicken flesh with it!

He comes in more than one flavor himself!

When Tito's not emerging from his eggshell kitchen, cooking implements in hand, you just might find him in more sophisticated regalia.

In this guise, he is more than flavor. More then flavor? Can there be such a thing? What is greater than flavor?

Newly hatched as a debonair adult, no less—with a top hat and everything—this version of Tito is the very "chicken of his people!"

And if you think that's too great a responsibility for Tito's non-existent shoulders to bear, then maybe you don't know Tito as well as you thought!

Here—in addition to being the featured item on the menu—he neatly resolves the classic chicken-and-egg conundrum: Which came first? Why, they arrived at the same time!

Is that important enough for you?







Bonus! Other members of Tito's Tip-Top club in all their lavishly rendered glory: Choby, Guapollon, and Tita.

The Cowboy Hotdog Stratagem

No sooner had we uncovered the bizarrest suicide food exemplar yet (a chicken prostitution ring) than we stumbled upon the Cowboy Hotdog archetype, a truly senseless new development.
















This most artificial of all foodstuffs, renown the world over as tubular repositories of slaughterhouse sweepings, nitrites, and miscellany, repackaged and repurposed as icons of authenticity! (Although, why is Mustard—he of the Last Stand—riding a motorcycle, and not a horse? Is this a strained homage to the annual motorcycle rally at Sturgis, South Dakota, a scant 85 miles away from the Custer National Cemetery?)

They welcome you to the by-now-commonplace ritual of their sacrifice and death with dancing, wheelie popping, and, um, vague gesturing.

With the kindly hospitality that tamed the Old West, they invite you in. To sit. Relax. Open wide. Eat.







Addendum: Please do compare the Cowboy Hotdog Stratagem with the Fancy Wiener Phenomenon.

Addendum 2 (10/29/09): Look, if an idea makes sense, it just makes sense. (This is the Clifton, New Jersey, Hot Grill frankfurter.)

Iowa Chops Hockey

Hockey. That most masculine of all games. Warfare on ice. Brutal, fast, strategic, like a coordinated military strike. In light of all that, a namesake reveling in its own victimhood makes sense only in Suicidefoodistan.

Please note that, as with the other suicidal sports mascots we have profiled—the Beef and the T-Bones—the emblem of the Iowa Chops is not a fearsome beast. This is no razorback hog, feral and fierce. This is not a tusked boar. No, this pig is property, a penned and abused thing. A creature intended, explicitly, for food. It is a cut of meat, for crying out loud! Some Iowa Chops events are sponsored by the Iowa Pork Producers Association!

This is, of course, a classic case of Ironic Aggressor Sublimation. We bring it up often enough—like here, for example—that it's about time we started using a snazzy initialism. IAS is the inversion of predator/prey roles, the assumption by humans of characteristics of their food. As though absolution—or something—will be the reward for the masquerade. It is a sarcastic simulation of empathy. A sneering pretense. It's easy to understand why it's such a popular ploy.

In addition to the Chops, there is also a mascot named Pitchy the Pig, and a dance squad hideously named the Baby Backs. Meat! Meat! All is meat! We are meat! We make no distinction between ourselves and the flesh we eat! Is this hockey or a lost rite?













Addendum: Your 2008 Baby Backs!

Pat's In Your Face B.B.Q.

Haven't we been telling you? Haven't we been sounding the alarm for years? These animals—chiefly pigs—suffer from some serious psychological issues. They need help.

Wanting to be eaten is so common as to go unnoticed by the public at large—not by us!—but we might now be seeing a brand-new syndrome:

Pat's pig demsonstrates the following symptoms: trenchcoat exhibitionism, poor impulse control, and suicidal ideation. And sunglasses. (We suggest a designation of 302.45 in the DSM-V.)

It would be bad enough for him to struggle with these silently. But, Pat's pig, we do not want that in our face. Thank god for sparsely patterned novelty boxer shorts!

This is pure paraphilic aggression. Pat's pig can't help it. He will make you notice him. Oh yes, you will see him. And—oh, how he hopes!—you will love him right back.

And then you will eat him.

Ricas Carnitas

The sign says it all:

These ricas carnitas are intended "for your parties." And what parties they must be!

Everyone lining up at the ol' Carnivore Punchbowl (as it's called) for a steaming mug of Pig Tea (as it's called) and a bite of Meat Rind (as it's called).

And speaking of festive times, doesn't this pig look to be the life of the party! The way he kind of… bobs there, hugging the side of the cauldron?

Those with more experience in the carnitas racket than us—and there must be millions of you out there—can explain the straw (?) sticking in the broth, and the smiling, chunky slices (of?) floating around the pig. Actually, no, that's okay. We don't sleep well as it is.

In conclusion: Sorry, we're busy that night. But we hope your party works out great!

(Thanks to Dr. Petr for the referral and the photo.)

Love Shack BBQ

Another vision of the suicidefoodist's peaceable kingdom!

Down on the bayou, everyone finds a home. On this commune of carnivory, in this shack that love built, neither consumer nor consumed will be driven away.

Raccoons! Come and perch atop our gable.

Gators! Enjoy our homey swamp.

Cows! Bask in our boats.

Hound dogs! Laze the day away.

Busty women! Lean forward and kind of... press 'em together... Yeah, just like that. Now don't move.

Snakes! Um… Be… on our sign?

We will all enjoy barbecued meat of every pedigree! The "food" animals can count on getting killed and eaten in colorful Cajun fashion. Bonhomie reigns as the steaks grill and the ribs sizzle.

Laissez les bon temps roule, indeed! "Let the heads good times roll!"





The longer you linger, the more you discover! Like the chicken and the pig kicking up their heels! And the brassiere caught in the window! And the little, bald human trapped on the second story!

Yes—there's something for everyone!

Sexy Pig

Well, there you have it.

The entire nauseating suicidefoodist philosophy is summed up in these two side-by-side images!

Marilyn Monroe, the essence of playful sex appeal. Erotic yet innocent. Voluptuous yet girlish. And, of course, a tragic example of a soul too fragile for this world.

And then there's Sexy Pig.

That these two can be set up in direct correspondence—the elements of Marilyn's famous Seven Year Itch photo appropriated by a pig hoping to die for her corporate masters—serves only to highlight the difficulty of our mission.

Where Marilyn had a puff of air from a sidewalk grate, Sexy Pig has flames. (From air to fire. That is, from heaven to hell?) Where Marilyn's mishap is the standard pin-up depiction of a woman caught in a gently embarrassing situation, Sexy Pig offers us a vision of a woman-pig burning alive.

With a spit running right through her from hip to hip.

And her facial features appearing to melt.

This sexist Sexy Pig (her very existence depends on comparing woman to livestock) transmutes light-hearted sexuality into soul-searing pain. Thus is the Movement's sour alchemy that seeks continually to make over everything into death.

(Sexy Pig image source.)