Mix one part complacence in the face of unspeakable horror and one part fumbling, adolescent sexuality, and you've got... Well, you've got something altogether putrid. In this case, what you've got is this, this (forgive us) Nice Racks barbecue team.
The leering mascot, the surrogate for the pigs' consumers, is far too self-satisfied by the meager accomplishment of his paltry wordplay.
That wink, that obscene token of collusion, is the icing on the rancid cake. In its superfluity it reeks of submission, like a homeowner holding the door open for the burglars making off with his silver. As though these barbecue teamsters need permission!
Addendum: Are we just imagining things, or does our lecherous winker bear a resemblance to the Swine-o-Mite swine?