We have to go all the way back to April, 2007 to find an antecedent for this thing, an image as raw and stuffed with casual menace, an image as ripe with hostility for the world.
Renouncing every instinct, repudiating every natural impulse, the Hogback Mountain hog revels in a death-loving ecstasy.
He smears himself with barbecue sauce, the better to be cooked and basted. As he slathers it over himself, he smiles, at ease behind his Risky Business Ray-Bans. He might be applying sun screen before a day at the beach for all the concern he feels.
One ear flopped over his face in perfect imitation of a teen's wayward forelock, the hog laughs at himself. At us. At our feeble feelings of pity and disgust. They mean nothing to him. Not a single damned thing.