Festival of Cruelty 12

We apologize, but it's time once again. Time to hold our noses and plunge into suicidefoodism's more honest sister city. (Do you remember the last time we visited?) It's not pretty. There are no convenient, comforting lies to hide behind. No illusions of consent. No coy, winking livestock. Here, all is coercion and force. Before we're done, you might remember suicidefoodism's deceptions with fondness.

Denny's Chicken Warning: Superbowl XLIV. The violence. The aggression. The intimidation. And that's just the commercials! (Thank you.) In this high-spirited Denny's spot, a burly, egg-loving chicken hater puts the birds on notice. He's coming for their eggs, and he hopes to terrorize them with the news. The rest is unrestrained hilarity as the chickens panic, the tears of mirth roll on, and a "good" time is had by "all."

(Thanks to Dr. KCinDC for the referral.)



Au Pied de Cochon: From Paris, City of Lights, land of sophistication and good taste, comes this ode to brutality. Three red-nosed fiends in chef's hats and aprons terrorize a pig, preparing to hack off his foot, riding him, staring at his mouth while, um, fingering a mysterious object of uncertain culinary importance. While all roads lead to this elegant establishment, bringing the hordes of refined diners, the pig and others like him are wrestled to the ground and slaughtered, on and on, jour et nuit.

(Thanks to Dr. Dan for the improved picture of this one.)


Meat Monster: The act of butchery has become so difficult, so gosh-darned tedious, that the barbekooks have devised an automatic, self-guiding killing mechanism. Just program your coordinates, and this thing will rush a panicked animal to your doorstep, ready to be hacked in half by steel jaws. Our machines are truly extensions of our will! The future is now!




The Taylor Corn & Que: The pig roasts alive while the bully steer lords it over him, a casual god of war, one blood-red tomato held aloft.





El Puerco Lloron: The weeping pig weeps for his life, for the lives of his family and friends, all the pigs who lived before him—briefly—only to be killed, cooked, and eaten. No weeping can undo his fate. His tears are only a seasoning for his carcass.

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








Duck in a Can: More gracious cuisine, this time in the form of a duck, body still stuck inside a tin can, fleeing his good-natured, amateur butcher. We know the man is a hobbyist, rather than a professional duck-killer, by his clothing. No white coat to denote his objective distance. The man is possessed by a demon of bloodshed. His tongue flaps from his mouth as he tears after the duck. He might even eat that thing raw.