Manny's Has Great Legs

To seductive show-biz ostriches and chickens, we may now (at last!) add turkeys.

And take a gander at them (to extend the poultrypalooza)—so high-kicking, so shapely, so… so… great. We are left again to wonder at the response of the poultry peddlers. We can only imagine what inner dialogues they experience.

"The turkey legs we sell are so gosh-darned great. If only there were some way to get this point across to the leg-buying public. I've got it! If we have a kick line of dressed-up turkeys doing their thing Rockettes-style, everyone will understand!"

Sex appeal, the nostalgia of G (or maybe PG) rated burlesque, top hats... Manny, you have more than great legs. You, sir, have a marketing sense second to none.

(Thanks to Dr. Bea for the referral.)

WheaEsta 2009 BBQ Cookoff

These three "food" animals—the Unholy Trinity of barbecue iconography—are here to remind us what friendship is all about: Togetherness, cooperation, sacrifice.

Together, they tend the grill. It is their shrine, their oasis. The place where they can be their true selves.

Cooperating, each brings something sacred to the party. The barbecue sauce, the spatula, the salt, the briquettes. Without any of them, their drive to die would be frustrated. But if each adds his little piece to the puzzle, just think what they can accomplish! It's a "Stone Soup" for our modern times!

And sacrifice? What of sacrifice? This is where the trio really shines. For each holds back, allowing his fellow the honor of first to be eaten.

Roast Beef with Onions

Fear not! Still your racing heart! Spare your sympathies for someone who needs them.

This Alpine maid is not weeping with dread at her impending slaughter and consumption. True, the man is hefting the hammer even as we watch this scene, and the butcher is whetting his blades. Though the purplish mountains and serene meadow suggest nothing so much as unending peace, a killing looms.

The roast beef's cow's tears are not born of fear, of pain, of the horror of impending nothingness. It's just the onions she slices for the dish she will soon join.






Addendum: It's another illustration from the animal lovers at Baytril!

Bubba's Smokeshack Barbeque

Now here's a charming vision of a parallel America! Along the dusty main street of Wichita, the "food" animals have taken on the roles and mannerisms of humans. It's like the Planet of the Apes, only with barbecue.

In this America, the humanimals gather down to the barbecue parlor and just… set a spell. They catch up on the doings in the capital, puff on the ol' corn cob, pluck a little banjo. These are decent, hard-working folk, much like the people of real-life Wichita.

The difference, the warp that gives this mirror its funhouse horror, is that Cow, Pig, and Chicken have made a haunt of the establishment that will see them into their graves. Or, because graves are too good for the animals we call supper, into the stomachs of their consumers.

Of course, we and our habits, the things whose reflection is cast into this pseudo-Wichita (the Whichita?) of craven animals, are now suspect. Only a corrupt original could have spawned such a corrupt copy.

Healthy Chicken Skin

It's a common proposition in Suicidefoodland—that hated, reeking realm—but one that drips with repugnance everywhere else:

Chickens take perverse pride in the healthy state of their skin, going so far as to hike up their feathers to show it off.

We are meant to think, "How like a woman she is, to raise her skirts, to tempt the onlooker with a glimpse of smooth and tender skin!"

Of course, of course, we can hardly claim surprise at the thought of a chicken pleased at an absence of cellulitis, but this is a virulent vanity. One can only surmise that the healthy skin, no less than the eye shadow and mascara, is valuable only insofar as it signals the chicken's desirability as an edible thing. It gives new and horrifying meaning to the term "sex object."

(Thanks to Dr. Bea for the referral.)

Smokin' D'Heiniees BBQ

Now, we're fundamentally opposed to the barbekooks' frequent conflation of sex with violence. And we have nothing but disdain for their sexualizing of meat (a phrase we shudder even to type). And yet.

And yet there's something timid about this, as though the Smokin' D'Heiniees folks simply lost their nerve.

From the fresh-faced gilt's demure posture to her complete lack of erotic footwear, we're seeing a long string of missed opportunities.

Face it, the most transgressive element of the scene is the orthography. (H-e-i-n-i-e-e-s?)

If it weren't for the pig sitting atop the grill, waiting for her moment to finally experience the "adult" thrills life can offer, we could almost ignore the subtext and turn away from the muddled double entendre.

Grove's Tasteless Chill Tonic: a "what the hell?" digression

Pardon us. It appears our brain has fallen out.

This product—this chill tonic—could scarcely have received a more suitable designation. Tasteless. And how!

Lay down your four bits (that's 50¢ in old-timey talk), grab a bottle for yourself, and see!

Drink it down and watch as you become… as fat… as a pig! (?) And as you metamorphose into an actual pig with a lace collar and receding hairline. (??) And acquire the affect of an elderly gentleman caught in mid-regression to his infancy. (???)

And just what does this, you know, mean, sociologically-speaking? That fat pigs are such symbols of happiness that we yearn to emulate them? That "food" animals are associated with rosy good health?

Who knows.

(Thanks to Dr. Benjamin for the referral.)

Addendum: Feel free to investigate the other posts in our "award-winning" (that is, non-award winning) series of "what the hell?" digressions: Dead Busty Turkey, Samsung Safari, and Cluck-n-Stuff.

BlackSmith Barbecue Shack

The steer is a throwback to a time when men bovines were men, and hard work was a virtue.

Young animals today, they think they can just wait around for someone to knock on the door and offer to kill them. That's not how the real world works!

You've got to wake up every morning with the attitude that you are going to get it done! You are going to make something (that is, food) of yourself! Take the bull by the horns, as they say. Or the pig by the ribs, or whatever gets your heart pumping.

The blacksmith learned his lessons well. He knows it's all up to him. He understands the joys of making something by hand, pounding the rack of ribs with a cleaver until you earn the gold watch, the number in your ear, and the electric prod that drives you to the bolt gun.

They're called values, kids.

(Thanks to Dr. Tofulish for the referral.)

Dave-Bob's BBQ & Such

We suppose Dave-Bob just forgot to include his little friend in the name of the business. They're obviously bosom buddies. They're so at-ease.

That's no random pig, corralled for a photo-op. These two obviously go way back. You can practically feel the warmth between them. We would have expected the establishment to be called Dave-Bob 'n' Waylon (or whoever).

It's a puzzle how his pal slipped his mind. It's almost as though—stick with us here—it's almost as though Dave-Bob doesn't see the pig as a peer. In spite of the arm slung around the pig's shoulder, could it be that Dave-Bob thinks of his friend as, well… As more of a commodity than a companion? We know, we know. It's tough to believe.

And could it be that the pig is satisfied with the arrangement? Naturally! He's filling the crucial role of "American Grassroots Food," after all! Heady stuff for a simple country pig!






Addendum: Dave-Bob?

Special Report: Pig Logo Exposé 9

Oh, why not? What's one more go-round on the carousel of barbecue-related tedium? Here it is: Pig Logo Exposé 9. Of course, after the last installment—the blockbuster that was exposé number eight—we don't know how much enthusiasm we can muster.






















































(From left to right, by row: Whale Belly BBQ, Red Red Swine BBQ Sauce, generic barbecue neon sign; "Bar-B-Q" Country, Cookin' With a Little Spit Q Crew, St. Catherines Rotary Rib Fest; J. B. Hog Roast, Adams Rib, Junior's Chicken & Ribs; unknown, Butt Whoop, generic "Hot Fresh BBQ" metal sign, Buck's BBQ.)

Whether bareheaded or in a chef's pristine toque, ball cap, or Country Gentleman-style straw hat, we know him. With or without the wheatstraw in his mouth, we know him. Guzzling beer or sipping wine, we know him.

We know him by his hooded eyes, his pride, his girth. But mostly by his overalls. And so shall he be called… Overalls. The latest stem cell from which a brood of barbecue mascots are cloned.







Addendum (7/03/10): The fourteenth appearance of Overalls.















Addendum 2 (1/10/11): And the fifteenth!














Addendum 3 (12/16/11): Here are the 16th (referred to us a while ago by Dr. Jen) and the 17th Overalls.

Grill Sergeant BBQ

Line up, line up, you sorry wastes of pork!

Well, well. What do we have here? This is the most pathetic pile of meat I've even seen.

What do you think you're doing here, standing next to my beloved grill?

You pantywaists make me puke! Think you deserve this grill? You're not fit for scrapple, you gristly numbnuts!

If it was up to me, you'd be right back on that bus and driven home to Mama! Who'd wanna eat you, anyway? Flavor? You don't know the meaning of the word, maggots!

Now, my boss tells me I gotta work with you pissants. So that's what I'm gonna do! I'm gonna ride you! I'll be on you every second of the day! You don't shit until I say "shit." Am I understood? Do I make myself clear?

If by some miracle any of you morons listen to me and learn something, one day you might—I said might—be good enough to die for your country!