Showing posts with label doctor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label doctor. Show all posts

Friday, July 22, 2011

Festival of Cruelty 17

Every few months, we leave the safety of suicidefoodism's comfy lies—"the animals want us to do to them what we want to do to them" chief among them—and descend into the dungeons of the truth. Finding there nothing soft, nothing easy, we hold out as long as we can before climbing into the light of lies above. (Our last visit into the darkness.)

Burnside BBQ: Burn the side, burn the front, burn the back. Burn it all. In for a penny, in for a pound. The worst part: The pig's got a napkin tied under his chin. When they said they'd be pleased to have him for dinner, he thought they meant something else.








El Pampero: Who says "food" animals are mistreated, forced to live without adequate space, mental stimulation, or medical attention? Jab! Take that! Jab! And that!

We know that El Pampero means "the one from the pampas," the great, grassy plains of Argentina. But we can't help wanting to translate it as "The Pamperer." That's how we imagine the hypo-wielding pig describing himself, with supervillainish sarcasm.



Law Dawg BBQ: More abuse of canine power. It's an unlikely trope: the uniformed dog or wolf—a law enforcement officer or a pilot or a chef—rousting the local pig populace. In this case, a good ol' boy sheriff ushers a pig into the paddy wagon for a bit of extrajudicial barbecuing.







SS BBQ Team: Although the aproned executioner adheres to a system designed to remove the stink of patronage and caprice, still the deck is, shall we say, stacked. It's a sure thing: someone's going to die. The concession the chef makes is a small one. After all, he doesn't really much care who's next. He knows he'll get around to killing and grilling each of them in turn.








Stu Pit: So much for the respect the barbecuing community professes for the animals their food used to be.

See you next time! (There's going to be a next time?!)

Friday, April 29, 2011

Introduction to HACCP

Welcome to the heady world of HACCP! You civilians out there can just call it "Hassup" and appreciate that it stands for the sinister Hazard Analysis and Critical Control Points.

You might also appreciate that, as with virtually every other concern that involves the disposition of dead animals, cows and pigs think it's the greatest thing since sliced meat!

In an exchange that neatly transforms a supermarket into a house of horrors, a pig confronts a physician/steer on his day off.

PIG: "I know you are an expert in meat. Maybe you can give me some advice on choosing fresh meat."

Okay. Already, we just… Huh? For the first of many times, we ask ourselves, "What purpose is served by having these characters portrayed by animals?" One is a shopper, the other a doctor. Why couldn't they be a human shopper and an equally human doctor?

DR. BULL: "Yes, we usually eat beef, but I feel like eating pork today."

Which makes the conversation approximately 23 times more awkward than it already was.

And now the science begins.

DR. BULL (pointing to the heavens, wellspring of everything holy and pure): "This is how we can have healthy and delicious U.S. meat."

Because "food" animals, destined to short, perfunctory lives before their transformation into full-blown consumer commodity, really care about this stuff.

Fast forward to Slaughter—Phase 2:
1. Clean carcasses with hot water.
2. Sterilize carcasses with organic acid.

PIG: "You are very welcome to join my US meat feast tonight! And many thanks for your explanation about HACCP."




And then: "Chilling."

Yes, it certainly is.

Watch the whole stilted thing for yourself, if you must.

(Thanks to Drs. Alan and Dan for the referral.)

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Suicide Medicine: a digression

We've seen the victims of clothing, sports, hunting, trapping, whaling, and pest control stick up for the institutions that did them in. And now it's medicine's turn.

Rushing from his graduation ceremony at upstate New York's Taconic Farms, Inc. (motto: "We’re dedicated to providing the quality animal models and services that can help you accelerate your research and improve your position in a competitive market"), the Rattus norvegicus subject has just been awarded the degree that will allow him to be experimented on and killed. His eyes sparkle with visions of a future dedicated to the promise of anonymity. He will receive a number—such as 6621-M—but never a name. Never an identity, apart from his disease model or phenotype. Never any consideration save what the law requires. And that's just how he wants it!

Let the rats dallying with their social sciences, their arts, their literatures—their soft world of the inexact and impractical—concern themselves with matters of the self. With signifiers and identity.

Our rat deals in Science! The quantifiable and repeatable. The impersonal and numerical! Science is the master to whom he is happily enslaved! The heady march of Progress! Where they strive for the future, those peerers into microscopes, he'll be there, contributing his tiny portion to Truth!

(Thanks to Dr. Eugen for the referral and to Seymour Miles for the photo.)

Sunday, September 21, 2008

The Doctor of BBQ

We admit it: we can almost begin to have a glimmer of a hint of understanding when it comes to the sexy sow motif so familiar to students of suicidefoodism. (Her, for instance.) That is to say, we understand that sexual imagery exerts a powerful pull. But this is beyond us.

We have searched, fruitlessly, for any trace of appeal. This image appears to contain no enticement whatsoever.

What are we promised? After all, every advertisement makes a promise, usually a cynical one. What does the cruel doctor promise? What secret fantasy, hidden even to our own hearts, does he promise to unlock?

The fantasy of a callous, sneering surgeon flicking ashes into our gaping chest cavities? An emergency room visit made nightmarish through blatant disregard?

When we need help, a reassuring word, the strength provided by a kind glance, what does the Doctor give us instead? Pig ribs and a bad attitude.

And wait a minute! Presumably, he's a doctor for pigs, yes? So just whose ribs is he rushing to the table? The botched appendectomy in 204?

And when he runs out of patients whose care he can similarly "mismanage"? He'll hook up the IV to himself to supply the finest rack of ribs yet.







Addendum: Remember Dr. Chuckie, the Doctor of BBQ's predecessor?

Thursday, January 3, 2008

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.

Friday, April 20, 2007

Festival of Cruelty

In our research, we often come across images that, repellent as they may be, do not conform to the definition of suicide food. These pictures represent not suicide food—with its sick and disturbed self-sacrificing lambs—but murder food. What is most often on display is utter contempt for the animals represented, a vile hatred that cannot be excused with the automatic "Can't you take a joke?"

And so here, to celebrate Suicide Food's having passed its 50th post, we bring you the Festival of Cruelty! "Enjoy" these sterling examples of man's naked inhumanity.



Kick-Ass BBQ: Evil tong-wielding gentleman kicks terrified pig into open flame after branding "Smoke Me" on its hindquarters. I think we can all agree that's funny.







Prairie Pork-Pullers Association Picnic: What needs to be said here? These good ol' boys are gonna teach Piggy a lesson. By the time they reach the picnic, that damn pig will wish he had never been born and, um, eaten corn, and... made those snuffling sounds. He didn't think he could actually get away with that, did he? Okay, wait. What the hell!



DrChuckies BBQ: It appears that "doctor" Chuckie is a graduate of the Mengele School of Medicine. Are we witnessing an act of "medical" torture? Revenge? Simple barbarity? More to the point: Who comes up with these logos? Cigar-smoking mafioso masquerading as a doctor, a giant syringe, and a chicken so scared his eyes are bursting... Sure, that'll move product. I say we run with it.










Harold's The Fried Chicken King: Get 'er, Harold! This chef is so full of murderous glee he is actually quivering. The poor chicken is acting on universal instinct here, just trying to stay one step ahead of the axe. But Harold won't quit. His compulsions won't let him. His own demons have transformed him into one himself. And these demons demand blood. They demand guts. They demand it all. So run, chicken. You won't get far.