In the heart of Suicidefoodland, USA, lives a legend. Other self-destructive "food" animals practice passive resistance of their consumers, or anticipate their own needless deaths with unrestrained glee, or even get down in the bloody trenches and help speed themselves to the great beyond. But Mo does them one better.
He has moved into the barbecue and made it his own. It's his version of a swingin' bachelor pad, and it's got all the creature comforts any depressed creature could hope for: a bucket of barbecue sauce for 'round-the-clock basting, a fork for the occasional puncturing, and an interior roomy enough so he can stretch out and let that good, dry heat get everywhere. He even has his own smokestack! It's everything a pig with an unquenchable drive to suffer could ever need!
No tedious drive to the last reckoning for Mo. He just wakes up on his big day, and there he is. Even before the coals heat up, he's ready and waiting, eager to meet his bleak, bleak future head on.
1 comment:
Dear God this is really quite horrible.
Judging by his color, Mo has already been slathering on the barbecue sauce.
And the really horrible thing is that we know his name.
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