Suicide Food

Manitoba Turkey Producers

2009-11-25T00:01:00.000-08:00

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Oh, and turkeys? You birds are about to have the rockin'est day of your lives!

And you thought your best times were behind you! Seems foolish now, doesn't it, the way you clung to the tatters of your youth? The guitar pose that seems natural on a bird half your age only serves to make you look older than you are.

But now—how funny, how sweet, how dear life can be—you've been handed a second chance. You can matter in a whole new way. Not by rocking out, no, nor by chasing the empty promise of fame. But by being eulogized by schoolchildren and then eaten.

Can you see what one lucky colorer can win? A kid-friendly turkey lunch for his or her whole class! A visit from [illegible] the turkey to delight the entire school!

Addendum: Junable James? Is that the Turkey of Honor's name? It's so hard to make out. Turntable Terror? Supply your guesses in the comments.

Addendum 2: And what is it with the aging rockers peddling their own meat? Anything to stay relevant, we suppose.

Next Suicide Food session: What We've Been Missing #3!

Whole Hawg Happenin'

2009-11-23T00:01:00.000-08:00

You know what's old and boring and doesn't make people want to eat meat? Fairy tales, that's what! Little Red Riding Hood. Yeah, right. Who can relate to that? Riding hoods went out somewhere around 1790.

The fairy tale is a form ripe for revitalizing!

For instance, what if—stay with us here—what if, instead of a riding hood, we went with a cutting-edge polka dot sundress and parasol?

You want to keep the basket? Sure, keep the basket. Good tie-in potential. Sell kid-size baskets. Gift baskets are an evergreen product.

Okay. Now. This is where it gets a little tricky. Switch out the girl for a pig. Give it a chance to settle. Give it a minute. See, you keep the wolf, and the pig is heading right for it! So you still got the violence going for you. Or, no. Wait. Brainstorm. The pig's happy about it! Yeah, the pig is going for it. It's violence, but the pig is in on it. You will own Soft Violence!

Put it together. Little pig is skipping through the forest, tra la la. She walks right into the wolf. Wolf does his thing. Predator, prey, bing bang boom. Now you are moving barbecue.

Addendum: Finally, for that little button. The kicker. Hack off the pig's tail—you know, those curly tails they got? Hack it off and use it for an apostrophe. Can you picture it?

Porcão

2009-11-21T00:01:00.000-08:00

Oh, the thriving meat culture of old Rio de Janeiro! For starters, there is the rodízio, like Porcão. The rodízio is the Brazilian version of dim sum, only with chunks of dripping meat instead of ingenious little morsels.

Servers wander the dining room brandishing knives festooned with meat. Then, taking note of an intricate code, they proffer their wares to the willing. If you want more meat, you flip your Meat Signal to the green side and its Sim Por Favor legend. If you are some kind of weirdo who doesn't want to keep eating meat, you set your coaster on its red side: Não Obrigado.

Our "favorite" aspect of this is that the pig's demeanor is not dependent upon your choice to eat him. "Yes? You want more? Excellent, sir!" "Oh, you're done eating the flesh of my family? Very good!"

He wants merely to be a part of the festivities. If you're flashing the red flag, there's always the chance you'll make room for more meat in a little while. And so, like the waiter who knows that a smile and pleasant attitude can secure a tip from even the sourest patron, the tuxedoed pig knows that his affability is his best shot at being eaten.

(Thanks to Dr. Dan for the referral, the photos, and the primer on fine Brazilian dining.)

Addendum: Our "second favorite" aspect is the cyclops pig on the sign. (Click to enlarge.) Our "third favorite" aspect? The fact that Porcão, which actually means "big pig," looks as if it should mean "poor sow."

Angry Food, a retrospective

2009-11-19T00:01:00.000-08:00

Oh, we've seen angry "food" animals before. (Here, for instance. And here.) It has only now become apparent that those examples were the opening salvos in a new offensive. And when we say offensive…

It's really the latest variation in the Submissive Dominant theme.

These seething "food" animals! How they bristle! How they fume! Yet they renounce the power of their misdirected rage. Like the towering Submissive Dominant who succumbs to his flimsy prison, these angry, angry animals are at a loss.

Take these chumps, aligned in anger on behalf of their corporate master, A Better Butcher Shop. Consumed by fury though they be, they neither run nor fight. They surrender, for surrender, we are told again and again, is the natural inclination of all "food" animals. The violent animal, the enraged animal, the clever animal—they all live, and die, to serve.

Addendum: The Firebreathing Hog even has his own retinue of lookalikes: the Mr. BBQ Catering pig and the Billy Bones "Pork U Love To Fork" pig.

Addendum 2 (11/21/09): Boy, once you start looking for something...

Hey, we've seen that angry chicken before!

First Hand Smoke

2009-11-17T00:01:00.000-08:00

He comes from beyond the grave, a creature of vapor and dark pride, happily suffering the unwholesome light of the living, braving the poisonous, free air.

His plot has borne fruit! Or no, not fruit. Meat. His plot has borne meat. (One of the more horrid sentences we've committed in a long time.)

Beneath the inverted smile of the Arch, the pig had cast himself on the grill that he might be transformed. From the smokestack he rises, white-gloved, having made of himself a burnt offering, to bestow the gifts of his flesh.

It's downright holy! It's like every element of western religion crammed into a bastardized, new creed! And lo! The ~~lion~~ doberman will lie down with the ~~lamb~~ pig!

The ham! The ribs! Torn from a miraculously bloodless carcass, they drip with the potency of the once-alive, and the faithful dogs set upon them with gladness.

Addendum: The artist of this thing, whose work has been featured in these "pages" many times (most recently here), has a real flair for the unsavory. Could he be putting out even more influential stuff than the BBQ Logo King?

Suicide Snacks: quickies 6

2009-11-15T00:01:00.000-08:00

As our schedule permits, we allow ourselves a little breather with these brief discursions.

(And as your schedule permits, please review the previous installment of the series.)

Have you forgotten that even worms enjoy dying? No form of life is so humble that it can remain unmoved at the thought of its eventual, meaningless death!

Far be it from us to claim that a pig derives her worth from her capacity to charm humans and fill them with lusty fervor, but Sweet Mama doesn't exactly… Well, she's not the typical barbecue floozy. She is possibly a boar in drag.

Second thoughts or a simple case of stage fright?

Over the years, we have seen some unappealing appeals, but this is the least enticing enticement we can remember.

Smokin in the Oaks

2009-11-13T00:01:00.000-08:00

An exciting twist on the standard barbecue battle! Here, we see a mating ritual re-imagined: the pig awaits with gleeful dread the winner of the contest, for that is the man who will cook and eat him. (Her?)

It's knowing that he (she?) is the prize, the conquest—that's the thing. The knowledge that you've been selected to die and be eaten is the strongest aphrodisiac. Well, for depraved "food" animals.

Of course, the pig has given himself (herself?) a head-start and already languishes in the flames.

Are we alone in detecting some queasy sexual overtones? The men competing for the right to have their way with the porcine prize? The "mounted shooting"? It's probably just us. Our avocation has thrown reason into ruins.

McCormick Mustard

2009-11-11T00:01:00.001-08:00

So comely, so willing, so crisp. So dead.

Right about now, you're probably remembering these oven-baked sex objects. (We apologize.) Like the Rachachuros vixens, this fish craves, shall we say, "action." Gamely, she props herself on a fin, beckoning the faceless squirter to do her worst.

She's already been killed and cooked, but she can still be violated in other, less conventional, ways. By being mustardized, for one. And by being eaten, of course. And whatever else these two can dream up.

The pouting, lipsticked lips, the long-lashed eye, the posture: the very humanness of the sexed-up fish and our automatic, reflexive identification with her are thoroughly off-putting.

The intended message appears to be "Why eat a dead animal who just lies there like a cold fish when you can eat a hot dead animal who, you know, wants it?"

(Thanks to Dr. Kelly G. for the unwitting referral.)

Carnivorale

2009-11-09T00:01:00.000-08:00

Say the organizers of Carnivorale, an orgy of animal flesh and organs:

"As heath conscious eating has grown more popular, meat has taken a beating. But a group of local chefs plan to invite diners to a restaurant where they can indulge in their most carnivorous desires."

Such heartfelt pleas for understanding from that most powerless minority—the meat-eaters! They've been rendered all but invisible in our society, haven't they? And now, thanks to the efforts of those who won't be denied their chance to eat with all the dignity of Caligula, they can emerge from the shadows for one night only. This night, in fact. November 9, 2009. In St. Louis. Perhaps as you read this, they are casting off the chains of their lowly status, a status enforced by law as well as custom, in a long overdue "celebration for meateaters."

We commend them for their bravery (if not their good taste). No more, they cry! No more will they be silent! The world must know, even for only one night, that they are still here! If not for the millions of burger joints, chicken shacks, fish fries, grocery store meat counters, butcher shops, hot dog stands, ribberies, and the rest, the untold barbecue competitions and festivals, and the utter ubiquity of their habits, we could almost believe they no longer existed! But they do!

Yes, the meat-eaters make up only 96.8% of American adults, but they will hide no longer!

And so they proclaim their right to live like emperors of decadent Rome, feasting on the most arcane, the most cruel, the most unnecessary foods of all! Veal! Pork cheek napoleon! Deer liver! Pig bellies! Caramel made with duck fat!

But we're here to talk about suicide food, not menus, and Carnivorale does not disappoint. Unwilling to stop at the indulgence of their every perverse appetite, they trot out a fine example of suicidefoodist imagery: a porcine Josephine Baker clad in pork-chop brassiere and skirt trimmed in bones! She is a morbid goddess of sex and death! Her coming heralds a New Age of blood-soaked sacrifice and righteous wrath!

How soothing that the meat-eaters, so tentative, so precious, have embraced an icon of such power!

(Thanks to Dr. Josh for the referral.)

Mo's Smokehouse BBQ

2009-11-07T00:01:00.000-08:00

And the meat people say that vegans have a poor understanding of the realities of animal agriculture!

Out of touch, are they? Living in a dream world, are they?

As the meat enthusiasts tell it, miniaturized pigs use large-model pigs as a means of conveyance. Or maybe we are meant to understand that mother pigs deliver up their edible offspring, bearing them on their backs like hairless, rooting possums.

We're ignoring the grinning pig on the right side. He's the same fantastical creature so common in the Barbecue Bestiary. We've seen him hundreds—thousands—of times before. He's the foremost symbol of the Suicidefoodist Movement.

It's the Automatic Pig Delivery System we're interested in. That's the latest twist on the range of self-preparing pigs we know so well. Fulfilling their role as a sort of hyperfood, they do more than regular-old food. They do all the heavy lifting, from delivery to dying. It's a full-service operation, and it runs on the hard work of our tireless victims!

Tennessee Heritage BBQ Festival

2009-11-05T00:01:00.000-08:00

If it weren't so creepy, it would almost be cute. This precious pig actually thinks he's celebrating his heritage! (There was also once a Scottish pig laboring under a similar delusion.)

He's got the coonskin cap, just like a native Tennessean. Or… isn't that, like, Kentucky? Either way, he thinks he's one of them. And like other animals desperately trying to belong, to be accepted by the humans who have only ever wished them ill, he'll go to any lengths to fit in.

"What's that, fellas? Stand closer to the grill? Okay, but it's kinda hot where I am already. No, no, sure, sure. How's this? Come again? Even closer? Um… Okay. (Ouch!) Is this good? Is this heritagey enough? No? Okay, but I think… I think I'm starting to cook! Guys? I'm cooking! (Ouch!) Come on, guys—I'm from Tennessee!"

La Table du Terroir

2009-11-03T00:01:00.000-08:00

We don't want to tell the Academie de Suicidefoodisme Français its business, but "terror" in French is terreur, not terroir.

And what word could describe this tableau of butchery better than terreur?

Les amis, together even after their death and decapitation, favor us with the rictus of dismal joy. It's as though they have chosen to descend from their heaven to haunt the boulevard, to coax the hungry and demented. Or maybe this is simply their way of watching the final act of their lives' drama: not their release from the prison of life (O, blessed moment!), but the intimacy of their own consumption.

C'est la mort!

(Image source.)

United Egg Producers, a digression

2009-11-01T00:01:00.000-07:00

Now, regardless of what a certain site would have you believe, we spend very little time bashing the free-range movement (or addressing it at all). While we insist that many free-range establishments are not appreciably different from their counterparts, we will stipulate that in some circumstances, animals are better off living under free-range conditions than those found on "conventional" farms. Moreover, speaking pragmatically, we concur that some free-range provisions or laws might be necessary steps on the way toward true change.

That said, let's take a closer look at the issue.

The United Egg Producers, proud prodders of chickens, explain the matter with an utter lack of bias!

And we're right there with them. Who was it who tried to peddle that free range malarkey to the chickens?

Freedom? The chance to rejoin the natural world, with its, you know, environments and, like, weather and puddles? What kind of monster would lie to a bird about the fictitious benefits of a freely ranging existence? It gives one pause.

All along, we knew that free range was a scam! Chickens are obviously better off in cramped cages, where they, um… Wait. What?

Sorry. We just… Hmm? Oh, um, where were we?

That's right: the evils of free range.

You see, chickens (like any sentient beings worth their salt) prefer not to be preyed upon. Though they find themselves outfitted as for war, with their GI rifles and helmets, they would rather be done with the whole bloody business.

Still, we confess we never knew they preferred a lifetime of imprisonment.

It's at this point where our credulity is almost (almost) strained.

Not wishing to be snatched up by a hawk? Fair enough.

Not wanting to get rained on? Well… maybe.

But fearing criticism for the oniony flavor of the unfertilized eggs your captivity was established to produce and profit from?

Then again, if the chickens say so.

All in all, a persuasive argument against free range. Like we've (not actually) always said, it's a hoax!

(Thanks to Dr. John V. for the referral.)

Pig Roast and Halloween Party

2009-10-30T00:01:00.000-07:00

Nothing to be afraid of here, with this sample Halloween pig-roast-and-party invitation.

It's just a pig-witch, smiling at the thought of her own roasting skin and flesh.

While grasping a barbecue fork in her deformed clawlike hand.

And sinking in the mud, making us wonder whether she'll drown before she can be shot in the head with a bolt gun.

Kids! Come back! It'll be fun!

Why are you crying?

(Happy Halloween.)

Bishop's Barbeque

2009-10-28T00:01:00.000-07:00

This kind of throws religion's capacity for providing comfort out the window. When confronted with the universe's unimaginable vastness, when we despair of finding our purpose within its infinite expanses, religion offers us a hopeful calm. When we contemplate our own death, and the eternity that will elapse as we continue in an existenceless state, religion can console us with a life after our death.

And then there's this guy.

What message for his flock?

"Follow me!" he says resolutely, waving his crozier around like a conductor's baton. "Into the fires! Therein lies the meaning you have sought!"

He offers the pigs pain. He promises them death. And all they must do to secure their rightful (and lowly) place in the unfolding of things is allow themselves to be killed and eaten.

Are you surprised that this is the fastest-growing religion among pigs? And are you surprised than an actual Episcopal Diocese would employ His Eminence the Pig to advertise its barbecue? Some things happen beyond reason.

Green Cow Green Beef Tripe

2009-10-26T00:01:00.000-07:00

It's been so long since our first analysis of suicidefood dog food—more than a year and a half ago—that we had almost forgotten just how unsettling it is.

This cow here, she of the green tripe, looks almost… sedated? (Drugged? Like she's been grazing on the "wire grass," as the kids say?)

While we cannot rule out the possibility that she's been goofed up, we interpret her demeanor as an overabundance of good-natured apathy. This is the expression one wears when one believes all resistance—all objection—is fruitless. When one has concluded that the fundamental state of the universe is senselessness, that life is propped up by irony. "Yeah, well, what are you gonna do?" the cow seems to say. "So do like I do and just sit back and enjoy the ride."

Yes, of course. Enjoy it! View the world with wry detachment as your stomach (one of the first three chambers, typically) is crammed into a can, along with some of what you'd recently eaten, is then shipped around the country, and, finally, is fed to some dog somewhere.

What are you gonna do?

(Thanks to Dr. Robert for the referral.)

Bathing Beauty: a paradox

2009-10-24T00:01:00.000-07:00

If you harbored any doubts that strange forces are at work, forces mustered to overthrow reason and decency and install despair and confusion in their place, you need only look to this image.

This painting (image source), part of a mural at the Costa Mesa Omelette Parlor, depicts a sun-worshiping sow at the park. Demurely topless, she dozes on her undone bikini top in the mid-day heat.

As such, she perfectly represents that bizarrest of all suicidefoodist icons, the Sexy Sow. We've seen her sisters in these "pages" many times, and each appearance is more baffling than the last. For it combines sexual neurosis and suicidal "food" animals in a way that should never have occurred to anyone. But there it is, enshrined in untold murals, logos, menus, and the other paraphernalia of the entrailpreneur.

We understand the impulse that leads to suicidefoodism. We understand the comfort derived from animals who appear pleased with people's desire to kill and eat them. We deplore it, but we understand it. We don't understand, however, this desire to see "food" animals as sexual beings. Is it the horror movie cliché of wishing violence on the sinful? Exactly why are they made scapegoats? For what must they be punished? And how, exactly, does this put anyone's mind at ease and create psychological distance?

It's as though seeing in them some aspect of humanity has made it easier for them to be objectified.

Thus is the Sexy Sow Paradox.

Pigalicious BBQ

2009-10-22T00:01:00.000-07:00

This decal is a lavish bit of generica—it advertises no specific restaurant or product, but can easily be pressed into service on behalf of any pig-related company or consumer goods.

It's got a lot going for it: a pig's come-hither gaze, the apple of death held aloft like Eve's temptation, even a little heart nestled amid the typography.

Honestly, it's as thoughtful and painstaking a piece of suicidefoodiana as any created for a national chain or prestigious local joint. Its all-purpose intentions mean that it is a distillation of everything that's "good" about suicide food. Indeed, it's got the pig proud to play its role as foodstuff and the cutesy admixture of sex and death. (There is something repellent about the way the pig tries to lure us with the barbecue equivalent of a ball gag.)

As an everydecal, suitable for any barbecue-themed business that should come along, it hits all the "right" notes and could easily render even the fly-by-nightiest spot every bit as nauseating as the best-bankrolled barbecue establishment.

Stumpy's House of Bar-B-Que

2009-10-20T00:01:00.000-07:00

This mother-loving, iron-pumping pig is working hard. The sweat springs from his brow like popping popcorn as he labors to prove his worth. He isn't your average, flabby hog from St. Charles (Missouri). He has poured countless, tedious hours into creating the tough, chewy Adonis you see before you.

Where Stumpy differs from some of the other "food" animals we've seen who suffer from Self-Destructive Narcissism is in his particular brand of self-love. Oh, he still wants to die, of course. But his all-out regimen of jerks, presses, and reps isn't fueled by anger. No. He's happy. Happy to have perfected the vessel that holds the meat some lucky diner will soon be eating.

Death. Now that's perfection.

(Thanks to Dr. TIF for the referral.)

C. Eliot's BBQ Catering

2009-10-18T00:01:00.000-07:00

This one takes some decoding. The clues can be found on Porkbeard's pirate get-up.

On his hat, Strong Persuader. That's Robert Cray's handle.

On the guitar, SRV. For Stevie Ray Vaughn.

The buckled boots give us BB and T Bone, for B. B. King and T Bone Burnett. (Or T-Bone Walker?)

And on the hem of his pirate-type coat, Slow Hand. Eric Clapton.

In other words, he is not only a pig dedicated to the prospect of death-by-barbecue, but also a living tribute to kings of the guitar. In other other words, he is a burnt offering on the altar of the guitar gods. Which means… Well, we don't know what it means.

The pig is primed for sacrifice. It's what drives him. In clothes marked with the names of his idols, he plays his swan song. The smoke from his burning flesh will—must!—somehow, reach the land of his gods. In death, he can commune with the forces that gave his life meaning.

Like we said, we don't get it either.

Addendum: Finally! An excuse to use this one.

Sea Host

2009-10-16T00:01:00.000-07:00

A charming glimpse at a more innocent world.

A world no less insane than the one we know as the present, but a more innocent kind of insane.

Sea Host appears to have been a chain of seafood restaurants from the late 60s and early 70s. Or not. A chain from the East Coast. Or not. (Details are sketchy and hard to come by.) But it matters not! For regardless of when, where, or why it existed, we are refreshed to see "food" animals presented without even a hint of sex appeal, drunkenness, psychotic rage, or, in fact, anything more alarming than the garden-variety desire to die. Yes, it's come to the point where that is our baseline. We can hardly even remember animals who haven't dedicated themselves to the pursuit of their own deaths, chasing after it like a long-sought treasure.

Sea Host offered up an entire cast of suicidal characters, including these poor souls:

Sylvester (the titular host), Mr. Big, and Smiley—and the rest of the gang—were all too happy to cater to the wishes of their customers. One can imagine Mr. Big's Cockney slang, Smiley's endearing speech impediment, and Sylvester's belief in the hard-won honor of serving himself, boned and filleted, lying beneath a lemon wedge.

It's almost sad to think about them now, their finest days long behind them. Now that they've died, no more do they have death to look forward to. They've been robbed of what they held most dear.

No! Let's remember them as they were. Not dead, but happily, blissfully, eternally about to die.

(Special thanks to the Waffle Whiffer, who doesn't even know that he helped.)

Kin Folk BBQ Sauce

2009-10-14T00:01:00.000-07:00

The animals have found a way to draw the death-and-dying process out. Instead of the quick hop onto the grill, they can luxuriate in the fragrant spray of barbecue sauce, letting it seep into their every pore, soothe their every ache. Frolicking, spooning the tangy lather over themselves, enjoying a drink, they lounge. Like debutantes making the most of their own anticipation, they linger in the slop. While the coals heat up and ash over, our bathers let all their cares slip away.

What's got us so interested isn't the same familiar glimpse into the minds of suicidal "food" animals. No, it's the tagline.

"We may all be different, but in the end we're all kin!"

That is some profoundly poignant wisdom. Profoundly poignant and thoroughly, horribly, irredeemably revolting.

Indeed, when the animals have been killed, plucked (in the chicken's case), skinned (in the case of the cow), butchered, marinaded, grilled, and eaten, they really are just kin, indistinct members of that great family of death. It is only in death where they achieve their authentic identity, that of faceless, featureless nonbeings.

That they celebrate this fact! That it comforts and amuses them! We suspect brain damage.

Special Report: Pig Logo Exposé 8

2009-10-12T00:01:00.000-07:00

We have dropped any number of bombshells with our series of pig logo exposés. We've ruffled the feathers of the suicidefood establishment. Stepped on some toes. Sure. Obviously. It comes with the territory.

If you've been following our exposés, you might suppose you've already seen the most prevalent pig mascots. Perhaps you're thinking of Lumpy, with at least 17 tokens. Or maybe Pig Out, with at least 18. But they are as nothing compared to this, our latest and greatest installment! Feast your eyes on this cornucopia of suicidefoodist cloning!

(From left to right, by row: KKC Barbeque Company, Cape BBQ Fest, Up in Smoke BBQ; Bixby BBQ n' Blues Festival, Bullock's Bar-B-Cue, Dillon County Chamber of Commerce BBQ Contest; Kennesaw's Pigs & Peaches BBQ Contest, Butt Lovers BBQ, JD's Barbecue; New Jersey State Barbecue Championship, Speak E-Z's, Biffle's Smoke House; Bub-Ba-Q, Stone Mountain BBQ Cook-off, Hog Heaven; Winelands Pork, Carolina Q Cup, Gourmet Pig Roast; Hansen Meat Service, Nugget Rib Cook-off, "Just Ask George" [thanks to Dr. shidoshi for the referral and photo]; The Giggly Pig, Pig Roast and Shore Lunch, Georgia Bar B Cue Association; Henry's Hog Roast [thanks to Dr. BJ for the referral and photo], Restaurant 28 Catering, Masterpiece Bar-B-Que; 10th Annual BBQ Cookoff, Uncle Redd's [thanks to Dr. Deepfriedkudzu for the photo]; TNT Southern Bar-BQ, Longcross Arks, McFrankenboo BBQ.)

Now, we know what you're thinking. The breadth, the scope, the numbing repetition! It's overwhelming! Well, prepare to be overwhelmeder!

Because this is only the beginning. Something has been nagging at us for a good long time about this pig—we'll call him Ubi, short for ubiquitous. We couldn't get over the feeling that, even though we have uncovered example after example of him, in varying degrees of customization, there was more to the story.

And then it hit us like a plate of pork. (Barf.)

Exposé 3, starring Ta-Da! At the time of this writing, we have unearthed 17 specimens. Here, take a look at a couple.

Don't you see?

Ta-Da! is Ubi. Ubi is Ta-Da! They are one. We are looking at the mightiest confluence of clip-art, folk art, and barbecue meme the world has ever known! It's almost like the Unified Field Theory, drawing together every strand of the Suicidefoodist Movement!

And it happened in our lifetime.

Addendum: Opinion at headquarters is divided, but doesn't there appear to be some Ubi influence in this, as well? (The image, by the way, is for a dogpark.)

Addendum 2 (10/18/09): The 50th example of Ubi/Ta-Da!

Addendum 3 (10/25/09): Two from the German-speaking world, coming in at #51 and #52. One advertises a Metzgerei (butcher's shop), and the other a "suckling pig paradise!"

Addendum 4 (10/26/09): This thing's gone global!

Addendum 5 (11/21/09): For number 54, Ubi lounges on an airplane so that he might be delivered—fresh!—directly to your mouth.

Have Pig Will Travel

2009-10-10T00:01:00.000-07:00

No indignity is too small! No affront too minor! Heap on the abuse—the pig can take it all and come back for seconds! Pigs are old hands at this, after all, the greedy acceptance of ill will and pain.

Leave it to the wishy-washy "food" animals to participate merely by bringing the barbecue to you. Yes, it makes their destruction that much more assured, but where is the extra portion of humiliation? The utter debasement? Sure, it's embarrassing to haul the grill around with you, but it's not floridly embarrassing.

Which is where the Have Pig Will Travel pig comes in. He consents to be ridden to the barbecue that will claim his life, smiling. And don't spare the spurs! If he's not burning with shame, it's hardly worth his while.

Pigs and Cars, a retrospective

2009-10-08T00:01:00.000-07:00

Oh, those motoring, pleasure-seeking pigs!

Let us pause to consider the newly documented complex known as DPS (Driving Pig Syndrome).

Capable of operating a motor vehicle, of obtaining their own freedom by means of the internal combustion engine, still they remain tethered to the industry that enslaves them. They appreciate their fine retro and/or muscle cars more than life itself.

Indeed, they are fully equipped for self-actualization, with their guitars and sunglasses! They are ready to rock, to roll, to hit the stroll! They could blow this jerkwater berg in two seconds flat… if only they had a life force that continued to function.

These two (or, um, this one?) do themselves up with leather jackets and shades and assume as much attitude as a suicidal "food" animal can muster.

Their rides are mere ornaments, outward signs of their inner emptiness. As long as they can glide up to the barbecue in a sweet machine, there to surrender themselves to the eternal freedom of nothingness, they're happy.

We can summarize the personality disorder at the heart of DPS by misquoting Robert Browning: A pig should put the pedal to the metal and race toward death, or what's a heaven for?

Addendum (10/24/09): Another pig behind the wheel and his (human!) companion, who holds aloft the ribs she has torn from his chest. Keep your eyes on the road now.