Bootleg Bar-B-Q

With an illegal pig under his arm and a pail of questionable barbecue sauce sloshing onto his dungarees, a backwoods ne'er-do-well tries to ditch the revenuer. Or the gummint's barbecue inspector. Or whatever.

Believe it or not, there's something even more important going on here than the extravagant display of stereotypes! (Quick note: More stereotypical barbecuing hillbillies here and here.)

What has really grabbed our interest is that Bootleg Bar-B-Q is propounding a novel legal theory. Previously, we've seen the assertion that access to barbecue is a civil right, the denigration of criminal barbecue, and the thoughtful observation that legally obtained seafood is preferable.

Bootleg Bar-B-Q, however, flips such prudent legalisms upside down. To hear them tell it, it's the very goodness of barbecue that could render it illegal. ("So Good it Oughta be Illegal!") And what of the pig? That smiling accessory is now an accomplice, aiding and/or abetting this blatant act of barbecue in the second degree.

Smoked Encounters of the Third Swine

We now know for certain that the desire of animals to be eaten is not confined to Earth. No, it is universal!

This image is all the evidence we need to conclude that all sentient life, wherever and in whatever form we may discover it, wants nothing so much as dying at our hands. We are both humbled and heartened, to realize our place in the untold vastness of the cosmos.

Still, it is puzzling—just a bit—that a species capable of such awesome feats of engineering and mathematics could travel across limitless space, the stars a blur in the background, and enter the atmosphere of our obscure, blue planet, only to say, "Take me to your eater."

Unless… Is it possible that this is not actually intended as documentary proof that extraterrestrial pigs have visited Earth and volunteered to die? Could this be mere propaganda? Another cunning deception from the Movement?

Our investigation is ongoing.

Mr. Bobo's Traveling BBQ Allstars

Remember this bunch of performing entrées? And this circus of carnivory? Total amateurs. Mr. Bobo's troupe are artists.

They ride unicycles, juggle, balance (while holding umbrellas), and get shot out of cannons!

And they do it all for… Well, not for you, exactly. They do it so that you will love and respect them enough to eat them. So it's really like a gift they give themselves.

Still, you have to wonder how creatures can think of themselves as food—yes, yes, "the greatest food on Earth"—and still work so diligently to perfect their craft. The chickens fly! The pigs have grace! They have conjured up a wonderland. And for the grand finale? They die, get cooked, and are eaten.







Addendum: We assume that any resemblance to The Bingo Long Traveling All-Stars and Motor Kings is purely coincidental.

Surf's Up, a retrospective

Surfing is the perfect sport to pair with the oblivion-loving cult of Suicidefoodism.

What better illustrates the go-with-the-flow attitude, the humility-in-the-face-of-larger-forces outlook of suicidal "food" animals?




These pigs derive their meager feelings of power through acts of submission. Only through the canceling of the self can the self flourish.

It's exactly the sort of paradox the Movement thrives on.






Surfing is just the right metaphor for the life of pigs brainwashed by the barbecuers.









The sacrificial pigs stay focused, never letting the harsh facts of reality intrude on the experience of the moment. For a spell, they can believe it's just them and the waves out there. Nothing else matters. Their profound futurelessness doesn't exist when they're one with the ocean. (Hog Island BBQ painting shown here.)




Even the hamburger is hangin' loose.










Addendum (12/23/09): More hanging loosely.














Addendum 2 (4/10/10): With his mother's ribs on a plate, his father's meat on a bun, and his honey waiting for him on the beach, Sooey rides the big one. The big one. You know. The Big One? Death?












Addendum 3 (4/25/10): Another radical and/or tubular pig.













Addendum 4 (7/06/10): It's the Surf & Snack burger's angry twin, Chicago's House of Ribs' burger (complete with the same spatula, shadow, and partial "hang loose" hand).









Addendum 5 (8/12/10): Bird, bird, bird! Bird is the word!















Addendum 6 (9/01/10): This little surfin' sow can even do it in cowboy boots and Daisy Dukes.

Addendum 7 (12/18/11): A pig desperate to recapture a youth (and palatability) he never really knew.

Festival of Cruelty 10

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to post #500 and the tenth installment of our Festival of Cruelty series!

By now, you know the drill: Every fifty posts, we descend into the sewers beneath Suicidefoodland, where things are even fouler. The feeble light thrown by the Movement's tepid illusions is extinguished. We are left gasping, eyes streaming. (Visit our most recent installment for a taste.) Gone are the lies that provide some with plausible deniability. These animals don't want it. They're not asking for it. They just want to make it all stop.

Red Pig B-B-Q: High drama at the barbecue joint! Not only high drama, but ruthless, bloody drama. It's practically Shakespearean! (With maybe a pinch of Wes Craven for texture.) A pig flees a cleaver-wielding madman. The pig speeds on teetering trotters. He thinks he's going to make it. Yes, he will escape. He will arrive at the inn, wrapped in warmth and safety. The fog parts. And then he sees it: the red corpse, suspended by infernal magic above the deathless flames. At that moment, he finally understands that he will die. He will die and be eaten. Fear is the tastiest marinade. (Thanks to Dr. Eddie Huffman for the photo.)



Bear's BBQ: Imitating the very best that humanity has to offer, Bumpkin Bear drags a terror-stricken pig toward the grill. The cruel fork in his paw promises an afternoon of torture. The bear—just look at that expression, equal parts smug and dumb!—might as well be taking out the garbage, for all the care he's putting into the procedure.




Oakdale Testicle Festival: It's a Festival of Cruelty tradition! The steer—or turkey!—clutching his mutilated crotch in horror, pain, and impotent rage! And really, is anything more heart-warming than that? Anything short of Abu Ghraib, that is.





Uncle Ernie's BBQ: What we think happened here is that someone, just for the hell of it, slipped the pig a bad dose of mescaline. That explains the god-awful vision of the barbecue with legs being ridden by a sombrero-wearing, lasso-twirling cactus. You'd run for your life, too! This image encapsulates an entire abominable worldview, as the pig tries to stay one step ahead of the demons conjured by his shattered sanity.




Frying Pan BBQ: Extreme hazing? Barbecue rape? We have no way of knowing and, moreover, wish we had never, ever seen this. "Smoke gets in our butts"? What in God's name is going on here? No, no, don't tell us. We still have some small shred of hope for humanity.

Winelands Pork

Winelands Pork is a South African outfit that prides itself on its status as "an export approved abattoir specialising in the slaughtering of pigs."

And they're not the only ones with pride! Their pig spokesman is just busting! He's not the public face of any old pig-killing bunch, you know. This one specializes/ises! They "adhere to strict hygiene protocols." And he's in good company—they have the capacity to slaughter up to 4,000 pigs a week!

Why, they even have an "onsite… veterinarian [to] ensure that the abattoir functions to the most strictest of standards as required locally as well as internationally." The pig's got a private physician! To guarantee that he and his chums are killed and butchered properly. No wonder he's grateful!

He can sleep easy, knowing that his humans are always thinking about him, seeing to his needs and comfort, making sure his essence doesn't contaminate the human food supply. (A frequent cause of worry among pigs!)

Sidenote: Do slaughterhou—pardon us. Abattoirs. Do abattoirs commonly have vets on staff? And do veterinary credentialing bodies have anything to say about their docs performing in this capacity? The way, for instance, the AMA has rules about physicians participating in, say, torture?

(We can't say for certain whether this is the vet, snapped while tending one of his patients.)










And just for laughs, here's another Winelands Pork pig. Dude: only 32.98 rands for a kilogram of vark skouer of boud tjops? We'd be happy, too, to know that our meat was on offer at such a resonable price!

HuffnPuff Smokehouse

"Huff and puff" calls to mind that storied enemy of pigs, the Big, Bad Wolf. But surely this particular pig, this Son of the Soil, has a more down-to-earth antagonist? Here in the real world, it's not some fairy tale baddie who's going to do him in—it's the very smokehouse he represents!

Oh, but we can't be too disappointed in ol' Huffy. He's obviously a bit… simple? Tetched, even? (At his age, still playing peek-a-boo.) He's sweet and special, like a big, stupid flower.

The crucial questions before we call Social Services: Does he have any idea what he's gotten himself into? Is he capable of offering informed consent?

Or, to put it another way: Does he know why his overalls smell of pecan smoke at the end of the day? The way he's huddling against the sign tells us of his familiarity with every aspect of the operation. After all, he's spent countless days inhaling that smoke.

He knows. Surely he knows.

Very well. He knows. Yet, does he have the capacity to decide for himself to stick around?

Look in his eyes. His yellow, yellow eyes.

Eddie's Restaurant

In variously colored shirts, Eddie fully endorses his restaurant's many offerings:

Whether they be dispensed with pancake turners, presented on trays, or even magnified to the frightening proportions of comedic props and speared with ludicrous forks, Eddie is a proud supporter of the business.

His enthusiastic participation is a classic move to quell any pangs potential customers might experience. Eddie's clearly not disturbed by anything that goes down at the restaurant. He takes part in every aspect of the business: cooking, serving, new recipe sampling.





It's only when he contemplates seventy-five years of these goings-on that he begins to look a little nervous. They are never. Going. To. Stop.

We feel for the pig. He's a lifer. His whole livelihood is wrapped up in this place. What's he supposed to do? Turn his back and just walk away?

No, he's made a commitment. He's a stand-up guy. He's in this for the long haul. So he climbs aboard the fish cut-out… boat… thing and hoists the big 7-5 and hopes for the best. He's made it this far. Menu's due for a change. Sure, he can ride this out.

Right?

HappyTime Farms

The so-called Happy Meat phenomenon finally comes out of the closet. This place puts the word front and center. It's one big happy time down on the farm!

The cow is smiling to beat the band! Talk about your wholesome good time!

Bundle the kids in the car and head on down. Depending on the season, you can enjoy a pumpkin patch, corn maze, and hayrides. And don't forget the multitudes of grinning animals.

Please contain your confusion and alarm when you discover that not every activity there is suitable for the whole family.

This flier—a promotion for the same happy farm—was under windshield wipers in our actual neighborhood, on our very street:

Granted, the sheep look a little cheerful, we suppose. Nothing to rival the toothy cow from the website, but still. They appear happyish, right? In spite of the dissonance created by the very name of the establishment—happy time… slaugherhouse?—the sheep are at least bearing up well.

They're exhibiting stoicism, maybe, more than actual happiness. Or a gritty determination to meet the end with courage and nobility, perhaps.

Then again, could it be the grim acceptance of impending death? The misery of their fundamental impotence? The rage of the condemned?

Oh, but just look at us go on, with our anthropomorphism and our habit of making everything complicated. Let's just start over, shall we?

See the happy animals. They are happy. They will die happy. Good night, everyone!

The Powers of BBQ

An out-of-shape superhero is a reliable barometer of a city's quality of life. You might think that a flabby protector indicates that crime is rare and shenanigans are held to a minimum. Makes sense. Sure, things are so quiet, our costumed pig can afford to let himself go a bit.

Maybe. Somewhere. But not in Suicidefood City.

In that blighted burg, the one pig who could keep crime and corruption away has thrown in with the forces he's supposed to be fighting! Like Buttman and Rubbin' before him, Pig Powers has grown fat on his own treachery!

And he doesn't even have the decency to hide this from his public. Nope, his potbelly's on proud display. (The rigors of crimefighting keep honest superheroes trim, but he has no shame!)

What's worse, though, than a caped crusader on the take is one who directly betrays the populace that depends on his protection: the pigs whose barbecuing he has permitted. Or even—ulp!—benefited from! That they should be marched to the grills is of no concern to him. Nor, we suspect, is his own eventual death and consumption.