The animals have found a way to draw the death-and-dying process out. Instead of the quick hop onto the grill, they can luxuriate in the fragrant spray of barbecue sauce, letting it seep into their every pore, soothe their every ache. Frolicking, spooning the tangy lather over themselves, enjoying a drink, they lounge. Like debutantes making the most of their own anticipation, they linger in the slop. While the coals heat up and ash over, our bathers let all their cares slip away.
What's got us so interested isn't the same familiar glimpse into the minds of suicidal "food" animals. No, it's the tagline.
"We may all be different, but in the end we're all kin!"
That is some profoundly poignant wisdom. Profoundly poignant and thoroughly, horribly, irredeemably revolting.
Indeed, when the animals have been killed, plucked (in the chicken's case), skinned (in the case of the cow), butchered, marinaded, grilled, and eaten, they really are just kin, indistinct members of that great family of death. It is only in death where they achieve their authentic identity, that of faceless, featureless nonbeings.
That they celebrate this fact! That it comforts and amuses them! We suspect brain damage.