Mellin Baby Food

Italian babies live like emperors!

They eat chickens and cows and fish, naturally. But their palates push them far beyond the pedestrian tastes of humbler infants. Push them, in fact, to the consumption of rabbits, lambs, ostriches, and horses! (There's something especially grand about the thought of a horse—a stamping, champing beast, so sturdy, so tall, so proud—killed, puréed, homogenized, and portioned into tiny packages for the delectation of a diapered Nero.)

The power and goodness of tyrannical children makes dying and being eaten that much more honorable! To be spooned into their pure mouths! To be wiped from their rosy cheeks and glistening chins!













The rabbit smiles shyly at the thought of it.

The lamb beams a gentle grin.

A wholesome smirk plays upon the chicken's beak.

Today, they will be served to babies, accompanied by the fanfare of Italian airplanes threading the skies and Italian trains charging into tunnels. What a send-off!

(Thanks to Dr. Marina for the photos.)

El Conejo Fresa

Bugs Bunny has something to show you.

No, it's not his ribcage. It's his shocking mental illness.

Thrilled to die, to be slaughtered, butchered, and eaten, he can still sell even in his current state. But, you forget: this is the state (i.e., dead and skinless, livid organs laid bare) he was born to assume.

For in the world of the suicidefoodist, all life is merely prelude to the main event—death and dismemberment. In that reeking world, Cadaverrabbit is a god. A gristly god holding up as sacred the indomitable urge to be killed.

And so, there he stands, offering himself up again and again, ceaselessly, to a parade of jaded consumers. He wonders, will showing off a little more skeleton make that one extra sale? Will that shot of his bloody peritoneal cavity add a few bucks to his bottom line?

Who are we kidding? Cadaverrabbit doesn't care about such things! This isn't about commerce. It's about being dead and flayed and loving it!

(Thanks to Dr. Adria for the image.)










Addendum: Refresh your memory about other beloved characters from childhood who are hot for suicide!

Portuguese Hunting Rabbit

It could well be argued that this is not, in fact, an example of suicide food.

The rabbit is not offering himself up to the brave rabbit harmers, after all. He is merely engaging in a bit of stomach-turning playacting. Perhaps his deep-seated self-hatred compels him to take on the appearance and mannerisms of his oppressors. And is this really so far removed from the drearily typical pig, cow, and chicken—denizens of Man's dominion—who caper and preen and help to guide the daggers in?

Whatever the proper diagnosis, this picture was so horrible it made our brain fall out. As soon as we reinstalled it, we knew that we had a duty to include this rabbit. To share it, to broadcast it to a world benumbed to all but the most outrageous outrage.

Our taxidermy patient has been posed in the garb of the hearty hunter, consisting of a belt studded with shotgun shells. And possibly a green hunter's hat and (slightly less possibly) red hunter's socks.

Whatever the rabbit's intentions, he clearly demonstrates a serious mental impairment. He has thrown in with the shotgunners who delight in removing his kind from the woodlands. And who knows? Perhaps, before he became the conversation piece you see before you, he himself may have been shotgunned into eternity.

And now he stands in mute testament to the life-changing (!) power of the hunt.

(Thanks to Dr. Nick for the photo.)

Free Range Dog Chews

Something new from the architects of suicidefoodism’s hollow bastion: animals who live to sacrifice themselves not to humans and their storied and boundless appetites, but instead to their animal companions!

Here we have a mocking parody of the truism that to declare some animals family and others food is an act not of reason, but of caprice. How blind we were! We have no doubt now that the airwaves and annals are replete with similar examples of suicidal pet food. If only we could have opened our eyes earlier and seen! Whole vistas of fresh horrors waited only for a glance!

And now that we have—at last—seen, we cannot look away. It is as if we have only now been told the story of War, of Pain, of Betrayal. We hunger for it, for the truth it tells of Man’s dark heart.

In this chapter, Free Range Dog Chews and Chicken Breast Wraps. Such a sense of equality this grinning, thumbs-upping chicken has. It makes no difference to him whether he winds up in a human or canine stomach! As long as he gets to die, he’s satisfied! If only we could all be so willing to see the commonalities shared by all life! And it’s not just chickens who possess this Alpha of wisdom, this first thought, this very Basis for Action. Cod also, and shrimp, and crabs feel it and know.

However, for all their adherence to the Movement's dogma, Free Range Dog Chews will not—can not!—be confined by its conventions. No! For even while they show us the delighted chicken and his merry marine martyrs, they commit the sin of Pride. Like heroes daring the very gods, they glow with hubris. Witness these of their products. They don't hide the ugliness of their enterprise beneath the now-familiar whitewash.

They are forging a new way. A sneering, arrogant way! They offer neither "treats," nor "morsels"—those cowardly anonyms. Instead, they are frank, bizarrely so. Lamb tracheas! Lamb hocks! Lamb lungs! Too powerful for lies, they proclaim themselves! Too powerful for lies? For the lies that lubricate the machinery of suicidefoodism's very world? How?










And then, this. This final statement. Lamb Pizzle Twists. Forgive them their one nod to propriety, their one uncharacteristic flirtation with euphemism. Pizzle. Are you unfamiliar with the term? (Are they banking on your ignorance?) A pizzle is a penis. These are "twists" made from the penises of lambs. (Better that you know.)












The lamb keeps on smiling! How could he not? Pizzle Twists are his ultimate degradation!




















Addendum (10/06/10): Now this newly discovered image really shows off the lamb's true feelings! Banished is the specter of the lamb's ambivalence. He is tee-totally, 100% on board.

















Addendum 2 (12/20/10): Another thumbs-upping critter happy to be some dog's dinner!

Raising Rabbits

It was a different world back then. Living under the specter of war, of fear and uncertainty, Americans found themselves tested. Patriotism was a way of whistling in the dark, of finding safety, even tranquility, in those terrible times.

Service and sacrifice. Everyone had to pull his weight, do his share, carry the load. This single-mindedness was an expression of a nation's determination, a people's will to carry on, to triumph!

But in some—those with weak personalities—it revealed a tic, a kink, a hiccup of the mind. Such is the case with our warbunny here.

A psychological type like him would be stamped 4-F. But he serves in other ways. Namely, in volunteering himself and all his fellow Leporine-Americans. (As John Milton didn't say, "They also serve who only serve themselves. For dinner.") If condemning generations of his rabbit relations to the cooking pot—and then jumping in after them—can give a shot in the arm to the folks on the home front, well then, he'd call that a small price.

Of course, he is insane.

The pencil in his hand suggests that he is the architect of the deluxe rabbit hutches pictured on the brochure. "Yes, sirree! Why, with my keen plans, you can easily raise 15 of us hoppers in one Liberty Hutch, right there in your back yard! Ain't America grand?"

What can we say of someone who devotes himself so cheerfully to the destruction of his brothers? Can we ever be truly free with creatures like this in our midst?

(Image source.)







Sartorial notes: 1. While we appreciate the Uncle Sam hat, we find the ear placement unfeasible at best. 2. The straps across the rabbit's chest make us anxious.

The Corruption of Childhood

Just when we think suicide food cannot disgust us any more deeply, just as we adjust to a new level of contempt, we discover a fresh vein of offense. The depths to which the suicidefoodists will sink are truly unplumbed. We find the perverted barbarity of this newest discovery unfathomable.

Animals are disrespected by suicidefoodism, of course. Decency is pantsed. Good sense and logic have pies thrown in their faces. But here! Here innocence itself is slandered!

Exhibit A is the Wandoor Rabbit farm of southern India.

Look at their amiable mascot, as untroubled by his grisly fate as any suicide food. He looks to be back from his morning forage, basket brimming with produce. He might even be pointing out the benefits of farm life, perhaps offering glowing commentary such as that found on the farm's website:

"Situated in the greenery of wandoor in malappuram dist. of kerala, the climate here is best suitable for animal husbandry, fre from pollution and chaos of city. Such a climate provides healthy and disease free environment to the rabbits and pork."

Does the rabbit look familiar? Do you know any children? Have you been a child in the last 40 years? Let us refresh your memory:






These two images are from Disney's Winnie the Pooh productions. Yes, Wandoor's rabbit is Rabbit, cantankerous know-it-all of the 100 Acre Wood.

Bad enough to paint butchered animals as parties to their own slaughter, but to twist and corrupt beloved figures from childhood? To transform them into meat-apologists? This is absurd to the point of pain.

"Free from pollution and chaos"? "Healthy"? "Disease-free"? We look on and see nothing but pollution and chaos, debased health, and moral disease.






Exhibit B is Stepto's Bar-B-Q Shack.

Who is this generic pig, in his archetypal chef's garb?

Whoever he is, he makes a cheerful and wholesome mascot, doesn't he? Why, we have little difficulty identifying with him, seeing in his day-to-day concerns our own, looking to him to help us make sense of an exciting yet sometimes challenging world.

Do you have the idea, somehow, that this pig understands? That he would befriend you in an instant if he could? That he represents all that is good and industrious?

It is no surprise that you do. For, most likely, you have seen him before, not shilling for a barbecue joint, but laboring in a bakery maybe, or in a mill, or aboard a train.

For this is—yes—a standard Richard Scarry pig!





















The above images are all taken from Scarry's What Do People Do All Day?, a child's utterly charming, engaging, fair-minded introduction to the workings of society.

Now? Merely another pig hoping you'll eat more meat. (Those soured by skepticism need only attend to the peculiar mid-snout smile, the rosy cheeks, the bridge-of-the-snout wrinkles, the gibbous moon pupils, the flared ears, even the shape of the chef's hat! There can be no doubt that the barbecue pig was appropriated from Scarry's oeuvre.)

What makes this such a gut-punch is not merely the strip-mining of our childhood memories. It is that Milne's and Scarry's animals are, if not people, then certainly persons, reflecting all of the idiosyncracies, the individuality, the humanity of humans! These animals work, they play, they love, they quarrel, they contribute. But suicidefoodism cannot abide that.

We are left to wonder whether everything is up for grabs.







Addendum (12/08/07): This overseas Chicago Fried Chicken establishment is advertising not fried chicken so much as fried Big Bird.






Addendum 2 (1/06/08): It is far, far worse than we thought. And how many times can children be coaxed into eating their beloved? Answer: Eight times per package. (Photo source: Dr. dizznan.)















Addendum 3 (3/16/08): The suicidefoodists will make off with every sacred element of childhood before they're done. Here, it's Dr. Seuss's Blue Fish.













Addendum 4 (5/18/08): Granted, this one's subtle. You recognize the font, of course. It's the Walt Disney font! The look and feel of children's culture factory Disney used to pitch dogs that gather up recently shot birds! You say "stretch." We say "thorough."







Addendum 5 (8/30/08): We should never have started looking into this. Now it's Foghorn Leghorn, cherished Warner Bros. blowhard, instructing young Henery Hawk in the finer points of barbarity. "Looky heer son!" he says, "Ya gotta get yer BBQ Chicken!"













Addendum 6 (10/26/08): Ariel, the Little Mermaid, wants you to eat her crunchy, breaded remains. Or perhaps they are merely the crunchy, breaded remains of her undersea pals. (Photo source: Too Much Awesome.)









Addendum 7 (5/21/09): Happy birthday, little one! Say hello to our special guest. It's Porky Pig! You know how much you love his silly antics. Well, now that you're a big boy, you may eat him.













Addendum 8 (11/01/09): Foghorn Leghorn's still at it.










Addendum 9 (1/18/10): Another denizen of the 100 Acre Wood gets in on the act. Here's Piglet dishing out the pork. Or buying it. Or sniffing it. Or doing something with it. (Thanks to Dr. Susan for the referral.)








Addendum 10 (5/08/10): Piglet's back, this time lending his talents to a "high quality pork producer" in Greece!








Addendum 11 (6/19/10): And it's Ariel again, wishing that some handsome two-legged human-type man will truly love her. That is, eat her.