Gatorama

One of the inspiring things about the study of suicidefoodism is its reach. No matter which twig of the tree of life you study, no matter what rock you turn over, you can find something happy about being eaten. And not only that, but you can find creatures happy about dying and being killed. Lobsters longing for the Big Boil. Pigs enamored of knives. Chickens prepared to angle their necks just... so.

And while alligators are not entirely unknown around these parts, they are still curiously rare. Perhaps their primitive reptilian brains have a harder time imagining the glories of death and dismemberment. Maybe they lack the brainpower to understand the many benefits of dying for no good reason.

Could be, but this healthy specimen from Gatorama (if you can call him "healthy" while he's in his death throes) sure seems to get it. The cauldron bubbles, and the gator's tough hide cooks. (That hide, of course, is suitable for wallets, belts, and key fobs, all of which they sell down there at Gatorama.) And he gives a generous wave good-bye as he dies so that he might—at last!—be turned into economical portions of alligator ribs and tail meat.

(Thanks to Dr. Kevin for the referral.)

The Crockpot Alchemist

We will stipulate at the outset that this is not the finest example of artistic finesse we've ever run across. However, as a token of our man-of-the-people nature (shut up), we agree to speak no more about the quality of the artwork for the duration of this post.

What is worth noting is the pleasure the pig wizard takes in his magical cauldron. He stirs it, knowing that in short order, he will have transformed scraps of dead pigs (that is, "tough cuts of meat") into something good. Something gold.

For that was the goal of alchemy, was it not? The transformation of inert lead into a substance untainted with the practical?

Don't trouble yourself wondering how he could believe that members of his own family—his own children?—weren't good to begin with, that if not for his Dark Arts—and a little death—they would remain mere pigs. (And don't malign the wizard by calling him the Crackpot Alchemist. Believe us, that's nothing but a trap.)

If only the pig wizard could transform himself into a being in love with life, and not death. If only.

Ricas Carnitas

The sign says it all:

These ricas carnitas are intended "for your parties." And what parties they must be!

Everyone lining up at the ol' Carnivore Punchbowl (as it's called) for a steaming mug of Pig Tea (as it's called) and a bite of Meat Rind (as it's called).

And speaking of festive times, doesn't this pig look to be the life of the party! The way he kind of… bobs there, hugging the side of the cauldron?

Those with more experience in the carnitas racket than us—and there must be millions of you out there—can explain the straw (?) sticking in the broth, and the smiling, chunky slices (of?) floating around the pig. Actually, no, that's okay. We don't sleep well as it is.

In conclusion: Sorry, we're busy that night. But we hope your party works out great!

(Thanks to Dr. Petr for the referral and the photo.)

Revenge Food: a digression

So many times have we seen the ingratiating smile of the suicidal pig or cow. So many times have we seen the lie of the Willing Victim, the charade of the Complicit Animal! We have seen livestock sacrifice itself. And we have seen the darker side of suicidefoodism, contempt and ridicule stripped of all of society's nice disguises. We've seen these things so many times, we might forget there is a Third Way.

Beyond animals embracing their own destruction, and beyond the bloodlust of people no longer feigning delicacy, there is something else: a winking reversal of the conventional consumer/consumed roles. Humans are—hilariously—at the mercy of the animals. This, supposedly, lets us off the hook in a whole different, unpleasant way!

To sum up: We've seen suicide food. (Boy, have we!) We've seen murder food. Now it's time for revenge food.

For instance! This miniature human turning on the spit.

His griller is drawn from the permanent victim class, also known as "pigs," and he's truly happy at last. Finally a pig experiences the joy of inflicting pain instead of the pleasure of receiving it.












This bunch, representing Hillbilly Hog Roasters, reenacts a familiar human ritual. Standing around, casually sipping beers, they watch the meat sizzle and cook. Only here, it's a trussed-up man rotating over the flames.










Stick the pig in the cauldron, will you?

Turnabout is fair play!

Now. Be still while I get to stirring.

Isn't it wonderful how suicidefoodism offers up a world where everything—every proposition and its direct oppostite—is horrific?





The usual suspects are all here! And now it's their turn to toast the hilarious death of their oppressor.

Note the chicken giving a teasing wave good-bye to the humiliated fellow on the spit.










And here is the pinnacle of animalistic cruelty.

The pigs—spared from the barbecue—hold their sides in uncontained ecstasy. That dumb yokel is getting his, all right!

Hoof it back to the shack, Jethro, and fetch the watering hose! No, no, we'll just watch from here.

Ma & Pa's Kettle

They were the perfect neighbors.

(Shot of Pa, tinkering with the engine of an old pickup.)

Pa: Try 'er now!

They wouldn't hurt a fly.

(Shot of young woman with tears in her eyes, looking at Ma.)

Young woman: You're the granny I never had.

But underneath the smiles…

(Shot of Ma and Pa gazing at one another beatifically.)

Past the rocking chairs…

(Shot of Ma and Pa rocking in the yard.)

They had a secret.

(Shot of a door slamming.)

An ugly secret.

(Shot of a bloody cleaver coming down.)

Off-camera: Nooo!

"Ma & Pa's Kettle."

Can you stomach… what's in Ma and Pa's kettle?

(Shot of Ma poised over the cauldron with a ladle.)

Ma: Who's ready for seconds?

(Quick montage of screaming, fleeing livestock.)


Coming this summer to a theater near you. Under 18 not admitted without parent or guardian.

Cirque du Poulet

Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! See the only thing under the sun worse than a conventional circus! Wonder at the "hilarious" antics of animals born to die! Goggle at the spectacle of birds who want only to tickle your palate! Thrill to the abomination that is… Toronto's Cirque du Poulet!
















(This row: Georges Bouillon and Ringmaster Coq au Vin.) Yes, yes, it's all very charming and twee, what with its food-inspired names and playful spirit, but all we see is a celebration of avian death.











(This row: Clucky Flameback and Mince Carter.) How could this concept be anything but grim? Combining circuses and suicidal birds—two of the worst ideas man has yet devised—is a guaranteed loser.











(This row: Mystique Whitefeather and Breasty Chesty LaRue.) The entire mural is a love letter to chickens becoming dead. Sliced by knives, dunked in boiling broth, charred, and fated to die.











We can hear the clucking chorus now: "You old pooh! I think this mural is a sheer delight!" You're welcome to it, Madam. (Or Sir?) Its lightheartedness is one of its gravest offenses. Granted, it is misdirection of a highly artistic nature, but it is cloying deception, nonetheless.

(Thanks to Dr. Caitlyn for the referral and to Dr. urbanmkr for her fine photos.)






Addendum: Can you make it out, the graffiti scrawled across Mince Carter's vignette? It reads: "Why did the chicken cross the road? Cause thats the only trip establishment would let it take. (sic)" Poignant.

Festival of Cruelty 4

It's been just over three months since our last foray into the pits of suicidefoodism's even darker side. We fear this pace is taking its toll on our sanity—three months is hardly long enough between visits. Even now, we still have the combat veteran's frayed nerves and thousand-yard stare.

But return to the bloody battlegrounds we must. We cannot leave our fallen comrades behind. Soon enough, we will re-immerse ourselves in the relative safety of suicidefoodism's bromides. But now is no time for rest. We haven't yet earned it.

Alhambra Abattoirs: The poor Alhambra pig endures a punishment right out of the excesses of Greek myth. Doomed to an eternity of humiliation, the pig bears on his broad back the Yellow Fool holding aloft a tray of meats made from all the pigs his mount wronged in life. He is perpetually slave to the Yellow Fool, forced to relive his shameful deeds again and again, every day anew.

Just look at the poor beast's face! Ask yourself why the advertisers didn't even attempt to tell the suicidefoodist lie: that the pig knows his place and enjoys what little his life has to offer. They preferred to wallow in the stark misery of the tableau.





Don's Specialty Meats: We've seen pigs (and other animals) in cauldrons before, but rarely with such ghastly realism. It's as though the people at Don's Specialty Meats want you to feel what this poor, long-suffering pig is going through. He's so hot, his shoulders are steaming! Note the bewilderment, the anguish on his face as he tries to hold back the tears. Do broken pigs taste better? Is this what they mean by "specialty"?






Dr. Bones Slow Cooked Championship Bar-B-Q: An image hateful in every way. It maligns all that is good in this world: the innocent, those dedicated to healing, our commitments to one another. Everything! An undead doctor demonstrates the most appalling bedside manner since Dr. Phibes.

We leave it to you to interpret this picture. Is the doctor planning on hastening his patient's departure from this world, in a sick, cleaver-assisted twist on mercy killing, or has he filled the IV bag with sodium pentobarbital? (Or would the resulting death be too painless?)

And again: why? Why does the appeal to anyone? Can you imagine walking down the street, seeing that awning, and saying, "By George! That looks like a friendly establishment! If they treat their customers with half the respect they afford their 'food' animals, we're in for a treat! The euthanasia drugs are on me!"



Frische Fischbrötchen: This being the festival of cruelty, we are at least spared the sportive fish hanging on a hook, acting out the whole thumbs-up, "life is good" charade. But perhaps the pendulum has swung too far in the opposite direction.

Is this any better? More honest, admittedly, but also a thousand times more gruesome. We can't help but imagine the fish's panicked agony, gasping, his eyes bulging with the realization that this is his ending, before he finally dies on a bun.








Two Fat Guys Bar-B-Q: Fat they may be, but if their cow and pig surrogates are any indication, they could more properly be called Two Vicious Meatheads. Is this how barbecue patrons see themselves? As snickering bullies forcing chickens—why is it always chickens?—to choose between death by burning and death by stabbing?

We can't be alone in finding these devils repugnant. They represent every impulse to dominate and destroy that humanity struggles with. They are also appetite suppressants of the first order!







"Cook a Little" Apron Designs: This is the apron to buy when the "Kiss Me, I'm a Sadist" design is on back-order.

Eat Your Children: a digression

Halloween costumes are a cherished part of autumn. Children's spirits soar as they experiment with make-believe and the assumption of new identities. It's a way of making real a small and friendly magic. And who hasn't oohed and aahed over little ones dressed for the season as teddy bears or tigers or kitty cats? (For our first Halloween, so many long, tedious years ago, we were a humble, brown mouse.)

But these are not that kind of costume. No, when you dress your child in these costumes, the magic quickly curdles. You are pretending for your baby, imagining she is food, meat, a dead and cooked animal.















It won't escape your attention that these costumes—featured on Martha Stewart's television show and website—are specifically not depictions of living beings. That livid red lobster is fresh from the boil. And the plucked turkey is wearing those paper shoes, the dead-turkey equivalent of heavy rouge on a corpse. The babies are even posed on platters, swaddled in garnish!

In that modest, unassuming way of ours, we refer to this as Ironic Aggressor Sublimation, and we've discussed it before (here, for instance). It's the supposedly hilarious identification with animals classified as victims, inferiors who could never threaten our status. It is never less than a laugh riot!

"It's a morbid thing."

Addendum (2/12/08): Another one. So cute! Hey, it's not like they feel pain or anything. (Image source.)


Addendum 2 (5/03/08) Of course, some people don't need to imagine their food babies as animals at all. For them, it's enough that they simply be identified as human chefs. No, wait. This is making less and less sense. (Photo courtesy of Dr. William.)






Addendum 3 (3/02/09): You may also choose to eat your child in sandwich form.











Addendum 4 (9/12/09): Or just cut out the middleman and eat a baby made from meat. Can you remember a time before you had ever seen this? Neither can we.



Addendum 5 (2/21/10): Children are edible in many, many forms.













Addendum 6 (12/26/10): Another example of the Grandmother Effect in action?

Carnitas Ureña

Forget the cactus. Forget the golden eagle. We are starting to believe that the cauldron is Mexico's dearest and most potent symbol. First it was these examples, and now this. The cauldron is powerful magic south of the border.

It is as though the cauldron is suicidefoodism's crucible, its vessel, the primary setting of its creation myth, the womb from which spring the tenets of a crooked philosophy. Our pig here—is he entering the cauldron or exiting, newly minted as food?

Or is he leaving such big thoughts to the big thinkers and simply enjoying himself? Because that's what it looks like. He is happy as a pig in muck. Or, to rephrase that old saw: happy as a pig about to be boiled alive! Just take a look at that welcoming, hail-fellow-well-met smile. This pig is having the time of (what's left of) his life!

(Thanks to Dr. Nedda for the referral and the photo.)






Addendum: Still more Cauldron Worship from Mexico, this example from Guanajuato. Only, if the pig is so darn feliz, why is he propping himself up on the rim of his "bathtub" and not going for a dunk in the old roiling boil like a good pig should? (Thank you for the photo, Dr. Larry.)