Sesame Street's "I Am Chicken!"

It is one of our "favorite" themes, the way the Movement seeks to influence the minds of children. Today's example is the I Am Chicken musical number, from the maybe-not-so-innocuous-after-all Sesame Street.

I am chicken, hear me squawk
Hear me crow and hear me bawk!
Watch me rule my roost and strut around my coop!

People say I’ve got great legs
And they’re nuts about my eggs
And when they’re sick they gobble down my soup!

Yes! I am proud of the way I peck and scratch
I am plucked, I am loud
Just don’t count me ‘til I hatch!

I’m nutritious, I am pure.
I’m delicious, I’m cocksure
I am tender, I’m exceptional
I am chicken!

I am chicken, I’m not scared
‘Cause I’m always well prepared
And I feed all kinds of people every day!

I can cackle with the best
And I’ll tackle any test
Knowing even when I’m down I’m still Grade A!

No! I’m no dumb cluck
And I won’t throw in the towel.
I’m no turkey, I’m no duck,
I’m the fairest of the fowl!

I am tasteful to the end
I’m your finest feathered friend
I am plucky, I’m unflappable
I am chicken!

What, we must ask, bellowing at the very heavens, is the point of this? We suppose it could be nothing more sinister than satisfying children's well-known love of Helen Reddy song parodies, but we are skeptical.

The lyrics, while sporadically cute and clever, appear explicitly designed to emphasize the lowly status of chickens. Yes, chickens are proud and unflappable, but their primary purpose—a purpose celebrated by the chickens themselves—is to be turned into meat, to "feed all kinds of people every day."

So Sesame Street, the main thoroughfare of a city dedicated to strengthening children's notions of acceptance, equality, and goodness, has undertaken to indoctrinate children in the disposability of chickens and, by extension, all "food" animals.

It is pure, distilled suicidefoodism: the animals sing (literally!) about their place in the web of life, praising their permanent and inalienable standing as objects, adored for the versatility of their exploitation. Their legs, their eggs, their soup-ready flesh! Everything about them—especially everything that issues from their bodies—is praise-worthy.

That sound you hear is the budding empathy of the program's young viewers as it shrivels and implodes with a tiny pop.

Popeyes Musical Seafood

The seafood is going out with a bang!

Life has been good to the catfish and the crawfish. It has supplied them with sunglasses, hats, and the tools and time to make sweet jazz.

So don't grieve for them. Know that they go gladly, joyfully, jazzfully into the Waters of Death. And then on, of course, into the Fryers of Eternity.

And nobody's happier than they are that Popeyes, long associated with dead birds, has opened up its arms to let in the dead fish and crawfish! It's a fine thing, a good thing, a right thing that all of life's bounty can be funneled through the dying corridors and into the no-land of nonexistence.







Addendum: These two chickens at Popeyes in Chicago are enjoying a little live music while sampling the wine/broth/chicken "juice." (Thanks to Dr. Anthony for the photo.)

Cops as Pigs, a retrospective

This is only the latest example of the Submissive Dominant paradigm. Surely the class recalls the standard definition? Submissive Dominants are animals who have the power to send their oppressors running, but who instead submit. We've seen them many, many times, from unstoppable cyborgs to livestock aglow with righteous fury. We've even seen frontier lawmen who fit the profile.

It's a model beloved by suicidefoodists who, presumably, see in it a justification for their entire perverse creed: even animals with the power and authority to object do not! Proof that they enjoy this! So policefood was practically inevitable, so crucial is it to the underpinnings of suicidefoodism's worldview.

And may we just say? If the vegans—those notorious disturbers of the peace—were to make this comparison, if they conflated officers of the law with pigs, they'd be ridden out of town on a rail greased with lard. But when the meat enthusiasts do it, it's just good-natured joshing.







Addendum: See the first example we documented of this phenomenon, at the end of this post.

Addendum 2 (12/05/10): Now we see the lighter side of law enforcement, as Officer Pork closes out the annual Policemen's Ball with a rousing number, prancing on the grill, waving his hat in the air, tongs at the ready.

The Crockpot Alchemist

We will stipulate at the outset that this is not the finest example of artistic finesse we've ever run across. However, as a token of our man-of-the-people nature (shut up), we agree to speak no more about the quality of the artwork for the duration of this post.

What is worth noting is the pleasure the pig wizard takes in his magical cauldron. He stirs it, knowing that in short order, he will have transformed scraps of dead pigs (that is, "tough cuts of meat") into something good. Something gold.

For that was the goal of alchemy, was it not? The transformation of inert lead into a substance untainted with the practical?

Don't trouble yourself wondering how he could believe that members of his own family—his own children?—weren't good to begin with, that if not for his Dark Arts—and a little death—they would remain mere pigs. (And don't malign the wizard by calling him the Crackpot Alchemist. Believe us, that's nothing but a trap.)

If only the pig wizard could transform himself into a being in love with life, and not death. If only.

Hog 2 Roast

Proud to represent a fine institution—they are specialists, after all—this cheerful deviant holds his head up high.

For all we know, that gives the specialists improved access to do what they do best: skewering hogs on spits. Have to give the professionals a little room, let them do their job.

The easy smile tells us that the impaling hasn't started yet. Then again, maybe that's the pig's thing. Clearly, he isn't bothered by the thought of it. ("That's right, yes. Spit roasting. It's a big stick, you know. Right through me.") So maybe the actual… insertion isn't a problem either. Or who knows? Hog 2 Roast certainly is made of sturdy stuff.

Nothing that a dose of spit-roasting can't take care of.

R. Lapid's Chicharon and Barbecue

Have you ever seen a more sporty pork rind? He's really working that visor! And the flair with which he handles his cracklebasket (as those little scooper things shall henceforth be called)!

In spite of his hip fashion sense and personal oomph, he's really just another employee of the R. Lapid porkrindery of Valenzuela (the Philippines). Only, one with more confidence and gusto than the average.

The way he points to himself with obvious pride—you know what he's thinking: that he wishes he could be reborn, just to be killed, butchered, skinned, chopped, and fried all over again.

"Join the team," he seems to say to potential pork rind associates. "Come with me beyond the veil that surrounds your world, and enter a pristine, yet greasy, place untouched by life! You'll get a viiisor."

And then it's up to each batch-of-pork-rinds-to-be (commonly referred to as a pig) to weigh the possibilities. What do they desire more: life, or a crunchy, disgusting post-life?

R2-BQ

This logo is hereby awarded twin distinctions: The Worst Barbecue-related Punning (since May, 2009 nothing has come close) and Biggest Over-all Stretch. "May The Sauce Be With Que"?

And look what's become of the clear-cut Star Wars mythos: instead of the Force—a powerful, nurturing energy that animates all living things—we have the Sauce. Instead of a life-giving and sustaining element of nature, we have a condiment for space pigs who would rather die than live.

We assume that the two characters—let's call them, oh… Luke Swinewalker and Boarth Vader (or, no, let's not)—are fighting for possession of R2-BQ. So that he might cook them. Whereupon they will be eaten by jawas. Or whatever.

Addendum: For more sci-fi monkey business, see this previous post.

Suicidefood Book Report: Animals Make Us Human

Editor's note: This should more properly be called a book reportlet, but as our spellcheck would have murdered us had we gone with that title, we had to use the less-than-accurate report. We pretend nothing more than a cursory familiarity with the book in question. And now, on with the… thing.

We can summarize Temple Grandin's Animals Make Us Human (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, ISBN: 978-0151014897) in five words.

Treat 'em better, then POW!

We concede that while this is a finer sentiment than "Give 'em hell, then POW!" it's not the most transcendent philosophy we've ever heard.

Noted livestock advocate Grandin has devoted her career to understanding the mysteries of animals' inner lives and speaking for them in their muteness.

She tells us that pigs have "lively, active minds," that cows form "close relationships, especially between sisters and between mothers and daughters," and that chickens are "intensely attached to their mamas."

And where has her insight led her? Not to urgent pleas to spare the animals, possessed as they are of their own drives, desires, joys, and terrors. Nor to seeking legal protections for the most vulnerable among us.

No, no. Not there, but instead toward more thoughtfully designed slaughterhouses. In other words, toward making a grotesque industry merely sickening.

All that empathy, employed in the service of killing them with kindness—literally—on behalf of some of corporatedom's heaviest hitters!

(Read our first book report while you're at it.)

Chicken Express

Look, it's a step up from the usual livestock truck, with its attendant terrified, nauseous animals.

In Chickenexpress, Suicidefoodsylvania, locals set their watches by the comings and goings of the charming chicken caboose.

Inside, on cushioned benches, chickens make the trip from life to death in comfort.

They can't see out those little, high-up windows, but what's to see? The world outside has faded from importance. It's already all about the next world. The one where they're dead, processed by consumers' digestive systems, and promptly forgotten.

(Thanks to Dr. Chelsea for the referral and photo.)

Mountain High BBQ & Music Festival

In Franklin, North Carolina, the animals are willing. Boy howdy, are they willing!

When they hear the strains of the Mountain High BBQ & Music Festival wafting from those heavenly heights, they start a-dancin'!

Kick up your "heels," chicken! Prance and frolic, cow! And pigs? If you could just nudge the sign up… a little… higher?

Excellent! You guys are the best.

In a rational world (that is, in a world far, far away from this one), the animals would escape while the band tuned up. They'd flee across state lines—or wherever—to safety.

What they wouldn't do is carry on like this party was something being done for them, as opposed to something done to them.

Crechales

It's like a murder-suicide pact! Sort of.

The fish marks the steer for slaughter, for which the steer will haul the fish into the killing air.

It's this kind of partnership that puts the lie to animals' lack of intelligence and sophistication. Together, in pure and loving symbiosis, each of them—the fish, the steer—ensures the death of the other.

Their relationship serves as a sign that the "food" animals are ready. Ready to form their own society with its own unfathomable morality. Ready to present to the world their warped reflection of humanity.

(Thanks to Dr. Papa Squirrel for the referral, from long, long ago.)

National Chicken Cooking Contest

So there's thing called the National Chicken Cooking Contest.*

From what we've been able to determine, the contest was inaugurated in 1949 by a businesslike chicken who wanted to drum up support for chicken slaughter.

The chicken, who had a penchant for garish neckties (he was almost as interesting as an actual human person!), was frustrated at the glacial pace of poultry killing then occurring on the Delmarva Peninsula.

This was a chicken with initiative.



Here he is in his "Average Joe" outfit, pinning the blue ribbon on a golden-brown (that is, dead) bird of his acquaintance.





In the 60s, he went undercover as a free-love hippie fowl.

You can see that the live-and-let-live philosophy of the counterculture didn't come naturally to him. ("Make chicken casserole, not war"? To chickens, chicken casserole is war!) But for the cause, the wanton destruction of innocent birds, he would go to any lengths. He would sacrifice his life to this cause, which was convenient.







Finally, we see him in CEO mode, rallying the troops, pumping them up with bromides. The unspoken vision statement of the whole operation: The only good chicken is a dead chicken.

By only the most depraved any measure, the chicken is a success. And at the end of the career, he can expect to be richly rewarded with a 375° oven, an artful recipe, and the satisfied belches of his consumers.








*Or, there was something called the National Chicken Cooking Contest. In September, 2009 it was announced that the contest had been canceled.

Rainier Restaurant

Pig: Seriously, guys, this is gonna be great.

Chicken: I think you need to explain it again.

Pig: What is your guyses' problem? It's so simple!

Duck: Okay, okay. We show up and then…

Pig: They eat us.

Chicken: Yeah, that's what I thought you said. I guess I just hoped I heard it wrong.

Duck: So they eat us.

Pig: Yes, they eat us. What is so hard to understand?

Duck: Why are we wearing napkins?

Pig: It's funny!

Chicken: And why are you holding silverware?

Duck: How are you holding silverware?

Pig: It just makes it funny! Like, "Oh, here we are, ready to enjoy our meal. What's that you say? We are the meal?" That's funny! It's good!

Duck: Because they eat us.

Pig: Yes! Now you get it!

Chicken: I don't get it.

Duck: Me neither.

Chicken: Where's the funny part?

Pig: The whole thing is the funny part!

Chicken: But we get eaten—

Pig: Here they come. Just act surprised!

(Thanks to Dr. Mrs. Suicidefood for the referral.)