Hava NaGrilla Kosher Barbecue Contest

Here we see the mechanism that allows faith to flourish. Through their belief, the faithful trust in their place in the universe's unfolding.

This leads inevitably to peace. Or, no, not peace. Wait.

Insanity. It leads to insanity.

Because, while this looks like a Jewish wedding—with the chairs hoisted high, and the chickens dancing the hora, and everything—it's not. No, far from the joyous commemoration of a sacred rite, this is the celebration of a barbecue. One in which the celebrants will be destroyed and eaten. Like we said: insanity. (How else to explain those smiles?)

But, oh, those poor, absent pigs. We can only imagine their despondency as they contemplate meaningless existence. Shunned and reviled, forced to face an unfeeling cosmos that cares not one whit about their flavor, they lead barren lives that revolve around not their confinement and unnecessary death, but instead their freedom and tranquility. Buck up, pigs. You've still got life's minor indignities and inconveniences to look forward to.

But for the cows and chickens whose flesh we are here to exalt, mazel tov!

And, please, may we take a moment? In our years of doing this, we have seen many, many terrible puns. Not just artless, overreaching puns, but puns that threatened to suck our humanity away. And now—Hava NaGrilla?—we have seen one more.







Addendum: This is only our second instance of suicidefoodist Judaica. Here is the first.