We apologize, but it's time for our required descent into the depths of what can only be called murder food. As you no doubt know, this stuff is what you get when you strip away the pleasant, smiling façade of ordinary suicide food.
We make this hellward journey every few months, if only to test our strength. Read the most recent installment of this series and then dig into this, Festival of Cruelty, part 11.
Penalty Box BBQ: Finally, someone has combined the venom of hockey and the violence of barbecue! Here, two boars have contrived to get themselves sent to the penalty box, wherein they might strangle and eviscerate a chicken on the opposing team. What's most discomfiting about the image is that the thugs are clearly not caught in the grip of hockey mania. This attack is premeditated; they've smuggled actual weapons onto the ice as part of their plot to gut that bird. And why? What did the bird do? The bird did nothing. His only offense was witnessing the pigs' complete debasement at the hands of the barbecue community. For that he must be destroyed.
Marshy's: The weary, defeated look on this chicken's face tells a tale, you know? He is heartsick as he counts down to Thursday, when he will join the ranks of amputee poultry.
He almost wishes today were Thursday, just to get it over with!
To hear the ticking as Thursday draws ever nearer, to know what fate Thursday ushers in! If his wings must be torn off, let them be torn off today! Now! Anything to end the torment of the end anticipated so vividly!
Pork Me Purple Bar-B-Que: No, pig, we will not. What we will do, however, is suggest that you visit a therapist qualified to help you explore and address your death wish, sexual addiction, survivor guilt, and unresolved anger. Leave your number at reception.
Embotits Artesans: The butcher isn't fooling anyone. Look at the big, red pig. He's not having it. He tries to back away. The butcher won't relent. "Come on, pig," he coaxes, the itching blade growing heavier with every breath. The pig, ears back, adopts a posture of fear. Kneeling, the butcher raises a hand in friendship. The pig is unconvinced, but knows he is about to die.
And this is the moment the butcher shop chose to memorialize?
Action Gas: The fairy tales that lend a shiver of excitement to a child's imaginings are here transformed into torture porn. Where the Brothers Grimm would let the details of the pigs', the childrens', the assorted iconic characters' grisly deaths remain obscure—at least in the tales' modern, Americanized versions—the Brothers Action Gas want you to know, to feel just how sharply the victims suffer. After all, how can you judge the purity of their gas if you can't hear the pigs screaming? Note also how they put the barbecue consumer into the role of mindless villain. Who identifies with the Big Bad Wolf in that story, anyway?