Uncle Dougie's Barbecue Sauce

Cozying up to Death Chicken, the Devil's Pecker, breathing the sulphur of his nethercoop, the pig and cow contemplate entering the next (which is to say, the last) stage of life's journey. The chicken might appear mundane and harmless, with his striped Polo and How's-everybody-doing demeanor, but take heed: Mefowlstopheles has come for their souls.

And before long, as they gaze into his unblinking crimson eyes, they will surrender. They all do in the end. They will give themselves over to him and follow him down, down, down.

Past the galleries of the shrieking dead, all the way to the River of Sauce. The river in which they can hope to forget.

Pigheaded BBQ

The pig's plan is finally bearing fruit. By finding a way to mate with miniature cows and chickens—thereby rendering their offspring blessed with the pig essence so prized (it would seem) by humans—he shares with the rest of creation the joy he has known so intimately.

It's a strange plan, admittedly, and it involves some irksome mutants, but whatever. Here's to the lovable crackpots who roll up their sleeves (or, in this case, tear them off), and get the job done!

We're not saying the pig is entirely altruistic, either. The wicked way he's looking at his feckless spawn does give one pause.

Well? What of it? Why shouldn't he get something in the bargain—in this case, the joy of killing and cooking—when he's giving so much? He, who made the lowly cows and the dim chickens more palatable, more desirable as living, breathing pre-food. More piglike.

Is he not their god? Do they not owe him everything? All the mightiest gifts—theirs!

Barbecue Coach

And here you thought the animals were simply blessed by their creator, endowed with the rich flavor and utter worthlessness that render them fit for nothing but death.

Such innocence is almost touching.

No, the animals have to work at this stuff. Sure, some come by it naturally, but for most, it's crack-of-dawn sweating and wind sprints. Like this chicken. Employing the vigorous whistle-tooting services of a coach, he hopes to be in fighting dying trim in time for the big event. It's a lifelong dream, and the dedicated understand that achieving a dream takes hard work and stick-to-it-ive spirit.

Lift those knees, bird! You think anyone's going to want to eat you with drumsticks like that?

Rudolph's Reindeer Meat

Rudolph—the decent, selfless reindeer beloved by millions of boys and girls—has an important message:

"When you order reindeer, you make Santa smile."

Yes, Santa (Santa Claus, that is) would appreciate it if you'd order reindeer meat. He likes ordering reindeer. Get it? Ordering reindeer? Like, ordering them around? What a country!

And because Rudolph's such a doormat generous soul, this really is the most important thing he can think to share with you. Not "For the love of God, would someone please rescue me from what has become a nightmare of captivity and the ever-present stench of fear!" but instead "Don't forget to pick up some dead reindeer on your way home!"

Merry Christmas!

(Photo by Travis S.)







Addendum: Allow yourself to be haunted by this ghost of Christmas past. And this one, too, while you're at it.

Landry's Seafood Restaurants, Inc.

And then there's this guy.

He has certainly settled into his role as seafood with panache. A tawdry, leering panache, to be sure, but have you ever seen a crawfish with more self-confidence?

Feet dangling in the ol' briny, teeth clamped on a cigarette holder worthy of Thurston Howell, suspect mustache winking in the sun, he's the very model of looking-out-for-number-one-ism. That he expresses his exceptionality by playing the part of foodstuff will discomfit no one familiar with our work.

He will be boiled and cracked apart, his pale flesh dug from his blood-red carapace, and he accepts it all—the attention, the adulation, the respect—as nothing less than his due.







Addendum: Or maybe he's a lobster?

Addendum 2: An earlier Landry's crustacean, this one exhibiting none of the moneyed importance of the current crawfish. Or lobster or whatever.

Kick in the Butt BBQ

Getting kicked hard enough to produce stars and bootprints ought to serve as a signal that something's gone wrong with your life plan.

Alas, not for suicidal pigs.

These proud beasts eat maiming abuse for breakfast. (As opposed to the kicked pig seen here, who, inexplicably, would just as soon not be kicked into a fire. Selfish bastard.) No, they understand that disfiguring violence is part of the social contract. In exchange for getting killed and eaten, they are brutalized… by boots…

All right, all right. Let's be fair. The pigs aren't very bright.

So instead of objecting to their hideous mistreatment, they slip on their coolest victim shades, lift their haunches just so, and… wait for it. Wait for it. Now!

With a deafening whomp, the happy pig goes ham-over-teakettle. This is his "Please, sir! May I have another!" moment, and he loves it.

This image contains everything you need to know about the study we've made of deranged "food" animals these past years. It is a pure distillation of an entrenched philosophy. A philosophy with the power to warp pigs' minds.






Addendum: An earlier version of their logo. You can see that since then they've really refined the effect of the numbing impact. The sunglasses were there from the beginning, though.

Assault From the Sky BBQ Competition Team

The grunts from Barbecue Division must not have read their rules and regs too closely. That, or they're the victims of enemy counter-intelligence.

Whatever the explanation, this operation is completely snafu.

They are parachuting behind enemy lines armed with the very instrument the other side is trained to use against them. It's like tossing Vlad the Impaler a big sharp stick and telling him to leave you alone! Those government-issue barbecue forks will be in the enemy's hands by 0900 hours.

Unless—and we hate even to suggest it—the pigs are collaborating with the enemy? Crazy, sure, but think about it. They call it an "assault," but they land smack-dab in the middle of the barbecues. (Imagine the scene: "Hit the deck! Dinner's landing right in our laps!") They equip the enemy. It's almost as if they've been programmed to surrender.

Now that we think of it, we haven't seen troops this poorly trained (or traitorous) in more than three years!

Anchor Butter: a dairy digression

The girls down at Anchor Butter are just a bunch of working stiffs, like you and me, taking well deserved pride in the fine product they help bring to market.

The successive artificial inseminations! The endless chain of babies torn from their sides! All cheerfully endured for the sake of their company's flagship commodity.

The most salient point: the cows are not mere objects—they are proper subjects, actors on their behalf, agents in their own right. Can an object drive a tractor? Ha!








Or churn butter to exacting standards? Or manage a hand truck? Absurd!

Touching on a loathsome but little-discussed theme—that of livestock as valued employees—this depiction of a shift at Anchor Butter is really just a snapshot, a day-in-the-life catalog of animal liberation.

Exploited underclass? No more than any other wage-earner! Captive property? Nothing could be further from the truth!

The cows are making the butter! They're calling the shots! The humans (chuckle chuckle) work for them!

(Thanks to Dr. Vez for the referral and the photos.)

Addendum: Revisit our most recent dairy digression.

Shrimp Daddy's

This is living the life.

Just relaxing in the cocktail glass, a giant lemon wedge for company. Take it easy, you know? Just conform your chitinous exterior to the glass's contours.

Prop an elbow on the rim.

Looking sharp with that bow tie. You might be on the way out, but you're not down. Not yet. Takes more than a boiling bath to do you in. Believe it: you're laughing! Digging the scene!

This is your time. It's all about you.

When they come around, looking for the tenderest place to slip the tines in, lower your shades and give 'em the line:

"Who's your daddy?"

Shrimp's got it going on.

Special Report: Pig Logo Exposé 10

For reasons known only to ourselves (at best), we like to assemble paeans to frequently seen suicidal pigs. The last one was a good while ago. Our files are bulging, so it's time for another.






























































































































(From left to right by row: Orchard Old Spots, Westfest 2006; Hamm's Meat, Stu-Pit BBQ Team; B. P.'s Smoke House, Mission Cochon; Bowie BBQ Duel, Rob's BBQ on the side; The Barbeque Hut, Conway's BBQ in a Box; Carolina Children's Home Annual BBQ Cook-off Festival, Bacon Camp; Tri-State BBQ Fest bucks, Big Pig Gig; Boss Hogg Award Winning World Famous BBQ, Lucknow Fall Fair; Garden State Porkway, A Hampshire Hog; GoodLand, Manfield Village Covered Bridge Bluegrass & Barbeque; Ware's Bar-B-Q.)

Appearing in such profusion, Dopey (as he shall hereafter be known) is surprisingly resistant to variation. Yes, he can be given spots or sunglasses, but he doesn't invite the same kind of tinkering other overused pigs do. Compare Dopey's immutability with Lumpy's or Jowly's ability to assume different roles and master new contexts.

There's something steadfast—almost admirable—in Dopey's insistence on remaining so trusting, right up to the end, over and over again.







Addendum (5/22/11): What no one was waiting for: Dopey specimen #22.