Suicide Snacks: quickies 7

Sometimes even a hot soapbox isn't enough to keep us motivated. Sometimes we just need a rest. Which is why we instituted the Suicide Snack format back in 2008, to ease up on the throttle and coast a bit. (The most recent installment.)



The chicken is taking no chances. You will stop to sit down, place your order, and consume chickens. Damn bird's been pestering the selectmen of Troy, Michigan, to put in flashing lights and a billboard too.









Laughing and roasting. Two great verbs that go great together.

In his great laughing roast-anticipation, this pig appears to be actively dissolving, firing off flecks of flesh in all directions. Which is known in the business, distressingly, as pork shrapnel.






A remarkable fate in Richland, Georgia: transformed in death into a train, doomed to ply the rails and deliver the people who will consume your corpse. It's practically Greek in its tidy horror.






The ghost of a disembodied bird head happily haunts the patrons of this Perth chicken place.

Billy's Boer Meat Goat Farm

No, no, you don't understand.

This goat really, really wants you to do this.

He is a meat goat. A meat goat. A goat made of meat, a goat made to be meat. And he's okay with that.

No, more than okay.

He is ecstatic about that.

His eyes are practically glowing in unendurable anticipation.

He has already looped the cord around his neck. He wants you to lead him to the Special Place.

Will you do it? Will you do this for him? For all of his kindred meat?

Rick Curtis Quality Meats

This mural is the very essence of sanguine. Bloody, yes, of course. It's painted on the wall of a butcher's shop, for crying out loud. The implication of blood is everywhere. The thing may as well have been painted with blood.

But, no. We mean the collegial scene. The gang is so darn cheerful, so content with their lot. The whole bunch is satisfied and easy-going, from the chicken getting ready to attack the dangling string of sausages to the pig enjoying sexual harassment at the hands of a malicious, grabby sheep. The butcher and the steer—look at the way they've flung their arms over each other's shoulder. These two, inexplicably, have managed to form a real bond of friendship.

We say inexplicably because the steer, in his living form, couldn't have been around much longer than the time it took to pose for the mural. We wouldn't have thought he could have made much of an impression on the busy butcher. Then again, the steer does look to be a character, what with his cosmopolitan ear- and nosering and his country-gentleman wheatstraw.

That they all—well, the four-legged and feathered among them—will be, you know, gone before you know it is hardly enough to dampen the mood. These are quality meats, of good character, made of strong stuff. They know their place. More than that, they take obvious pride in knowing their place. There they go, smiling, blushing, cavorting, sexually harassing, right up the end.

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

25th Anniversary Barbecue Festival

With a knowing wink, Trixie welcomes you to the 25th anniversary of something-or-other.

It's classic, really. And we're not referring to the "authentic" diner ambience. We mean the gatekeeper role undertaken by the server. (We are reminded of this sassy waitress.) Hip cocked, paper hat perched atop her black bob, she assumes authority over the proceedings. She shows you to your seat and lets you know How It Is.

Remember, this is the straight-talking waitress stereotype, so when she says pig is on the menu—when she herself and all her kind are on the menu, and yet her objections don't rise above the level of a flirtatious wink—it means something. It means everything is fair game.

Bacon Flavored Instant Baby Formula: a hoax

It has taken us more than two years, but we have finally managed to turn up another suicidefoodist hoax.

It is a true testament to the insanity of genuine suicide food that hoaxes are so rare. When the real thing sends rational minds careening into the abyss, what need is there of exaggeration? And how many pranksters would willingly take on such a challenge, to outdo the established suicidefoodist academies?

In this example of so-horrible-you'd-assume-it's-real nonsense, the hoaxers describe an experiment to perfect a bacon baby formula.

"[W]e consulted with pediatricians and began to experiment with drying and grinding bacon into a fine powder, then applying a patent-pending process to concentrate this powder into the most essential nutrients and ingredients for brain development. This potential infant superfood was then added to a test subject’s infant formula.

The results were absolutely impressive. By the age of 4 months, our test subject started to exhibit some amazing abilities including walking and talking. By 6 months of age, she could read and memorize her early stage children's books and showed an extreme level of coordination and balance...."

And, of course, because, lark or not, suicidefoodism demands the recruitment of animals into positions of abject powerlessness, the label of the (fictitious) product bears the image of a diapered piglet. He watches us benignly, unafraid to become a dried and ground bacon supplement.

(Thanks to Dr. Lou for the referral.)

Pork in the Park

The porks—forgive us, the pigs—have come by car and motorcycle, to purify themselves ritually before they die.

They've come, to this sacred pond in Wicomico County (Maryland), to atone for their sins (namely, their prideful refusal, up to now, to be eaten). And so, on this, their last day, they languish, bellies stuffed, even as they will soon be the stuffing for other bellies. They loll, even as the sky flares with righteous fire.

Is this scene meant to be tranquil? Between the flammable atmosphere and the clouds of choking smoke, the site speaks more of cataclysm than of respite.

Which is, of course, as it should be.







Addendum: Like you, we are reminded of this.

Herring in Cream sauce

A chilling peek into the crumbling minds of deranged fish. Oh, what they will get up to!

One climbs in the ol' barrel while the other splashes the cream in, and they both have the time of their lives!

So great, so irresistibly delicious is their drive to die and be eaten, to become objects in someone else's life—exalted ingredients—that there is no limit to the degradation they will endure.

While we won't dispute the claim that this travesty might, in fact, be a "Good Source of Omega 3," we are dubious about the notion that this is "All Natural." Look in their eyes: what do you see in the scene they have created?

They are around the bend, and whether their illness is chemical or emotional in origin, we find nothing natural about their behavior. It subverts every instinct, every drive and desire, of naturally occurring life.

God Burger

A startling artifact from the Far East. Its meaning is puzzling, to be sure. Is it, in fact, an example of culture misappropriation? An innocent mistranslation? Mimetic crossed wires?

If you ask us (and we are specialists), the people at EngrishFunny.com have it all wrong.

Godburger isn't evidence of mangled English. No, this hamburger is God. Okay, okay, perhaps he's only one god among many. We can't pin down the ecclesiastical nuances, but we maintain that the distinction is irrelevant.

The burger is supernatural. Clad in naught but a lettuce breechclout and comically oversized footwear, Godburger—He of the Shiny Bun—is the perpetually satisfied sacrifice. Thumbs-upping into eternity, he offers himself again and again, ever-rebirthing himself anew. He promises life—he guarantees and sustains it—by delving deeply into the magic of death.

GB's Barbeque

This latest example of daisychaining, this Ouroboros of living meat, this skein of life's seeking its own ending, this seamless ribbon of flesh—how it awakens our certainty that all is not well.

In Suicidefoodland's cosmogony, this is the corrupted Circle of Life: two "food" animals so crazed by the promise of their imminent destruction that they dress in tuxedos and go forth to eat and be eaten. Annihilation is the hub of life's wheel, the seed from which meaning grows.

The cow and pig are at existence's Apex-Nadir: Prey and predator at once, they embody the Alpha and Omega of life simultaneously!

As they grab their companion's foot, they follow each other gleefully into hell.

(Thanks to Dr. Lynnerd for the referral.)









Addendum (8/31/10): Dr. Lynnerd has apprised us of a new offering from GB's, and it's every bit as nettlesome as the original! Gone is the joy of reciprocal gluttony, and in its place is suicidefoodism's version of sanctimony.

Sexy Hot Dog Tattoo

Everything you thought you knew about the world is wrong.

You thought the world was built upon a bedrock of reason. Wrong.

You thought that, though people show remarkably poor judgment when determining what goes inside their bodies, they would nevertheless refrain from indelibly marking the outside of their bodies with something like this. Wrong.

You thought that, while hot dogs might indeed wish to be consumed—and thus achieve a pig's closest approximation of a second death—and while hot dogs can, in fact, be capable of assuming a sporty attitude, they could never represent anything resembling sexual beings. Wrong wrong wrong.

This very frank frank—permanently residing on the skin of an actual human being—pleasures herself through the application of edible lubricants. Her eventual consumption will be her most intense climax, the highest note to go out on.

Wrong!

Chicken Bar-B-Que

When a library finds itself holding the short end of the budget stick, it does what any other institution does in dire need: It whips out the sardonic animals who have decided that anything would be better than one more day in this stinking sewer called Life.

In this example, the dialogue of a pair of chickens is so bleak and wintry, so baldly Beckettian, that we hardly wonder at the impatience to be done with this tiresome business of existence:

"Brrrrr brrrrr."

"Things are going to warm up for us!"

Life's extremes—from bone-chilling blasts to fiery agonies—inspire in them only a futile irony. We might expect to see them arrayed in garbage cans like Endgame's Nagg and Nell, instead of festive caps and scarves.

And there's this final taunt: "Your head is shaped like an egg!" Who speaks this hurtful wisdom? Is it God himself, condemning them to their desired deaths even as he mocks the anatomy with which he cursed them?

No matter who utters the line, the last act is already written: the birds will be split down the middle and served with hot cocoa (mix).

Mellin Baby Food

Italian babies live like emperors!

They eat chickens and cows and fish, naturally. But their palates push them far beyond the pedestrian tastes of humbler infants. Push them, in fact, to the consumption of rabbits, lambs, ostriches, and horses! (There's something especially grand about the thought of a horse—a stamping, champing beast, so sturdy, so tall, so proud—killed, puréed, homogenized, and portioned into tiny packages for the delectation of a diapered Nero.)

The power and goodness of tyrannical children makes dying and being eaten that much more honorable! To be spooned into their pure mouths! To be wiped from their rosy cheeks and glistening chins!













The rabbit smiles shyly at the thought of it.

The lamb beams a gentle grin.

A wholesome smirk plays upon the chicken's beak.

Today, they will be served to babies, accompanied by the fanfare of Italian airplanes threading the skies and Italian trains charging into tunnels. What a send-off!

(Thanks to Dr. Marina for the photos.)

The Seafood International Market & Restaurant

The Seafood International Market & Restaurant boasts, "If it swims, we have it."

By which they mean, naturally, "If it used to swim, we have it." Or, in the case of this lovely mermaid, "If it used to swim and has been hoisted onto a table, trapped, never to return to its natural home, we have it."

What's remarkable about this image, of course, is the presence of a half- (or near-) human. In this, it demonstrates suicidefoodism's total domination of our better natures. For it announces—do listen for the trumpets—that even near- (or half-) humans can wish to die for our culinary satisfaction. And doing so, they are fair game.

Our mermaid, her breasts demurely scaled, is fresh from the sea—her hair is still stringy with brine. Having been plopped onto the table, she doesn't wriggle. No, she invites you to dig in, her flukes coyly raised. It's a heady invitation, indeed, this comely amphibian makes. And the diners flock to her table. They fumble with their chopsticks. They dig in.

Which raises the question: how much humanity is required to render a potential meal inedible? Would a pig with human ears be spared? Or a chicken with an Adam's apple?

Our undine, who might very well have swum headlong into the net, doesn't wish to be spared, but instead to be devoured raw, like a common fish.