It's the whole panorama of depraved pig/human interaction, laid before us like a tapestry memorializing the deeds of some petty tyrant.
First, in their infancy, the pigs subject themselves to the cruel whims of our sport. They submit to our harassment. We pursue them across the fields, deafening (and delighting) them with our delicious taunts. They scamper, squealing, and we laugh and laugh!
Then, in their boisterous adolescence, we engage in good-natured ribbing. (No pun intended.) And let's face it, those teenaged pigs sure know how to push our buttons! So we put on the ol' pig nose. It's our way of saying, "Let's not take ourselves too seriously, shall we?"
(And speaking of taking ourselves way too seriously, perhaps we should mention IAS. Because this is a classic case of it right here—the woman in the pig get-up, reveling in her barely disguised disdain. "Look at me! Ha ha! I'm stupid food!")
And then, in the autumn of their lives, having known nothing else but the joy of the dominated, they serve us by donning the bandanna of the damned and consenting to be killed.
All in all, a full life, one fit for any demented livestock with low expectations.