The Lobster Pot

You are forgiven if, like us, you first misread the ribbon running through the lobster's head (?) as "Scott / Cyanide." Cyanide poisoning would have offered a convenient explanation for this poor crustacean's demeanor. (WebMD offers confusion and bizarre behavior as symptoms of cyanide poisoning. Other sources mention giddiness. And finally, let us not forget the cyanide victm's "unusually pink or cherry-red" skin!) But enough! This lobster, though giddy and behaving bizarrely—not only boiling himself alive, but doing so in a pot of smiling lozenges?—is suffering from that malady so familiar among "food" animals. This is that same suicidal ideation we have tirelessly catalogued these past 14 weeks. Assuredly, our potted lobster here demonstrates a florid case of it, but we may in good conscience leave aside our suspicions of murder-by-poison.

Our lobster, defined as he is by his final resting place, is emblematic of this particular perversion. But even after so many posts detailing the many manifestations of the disorder, it continues to baffle and depress. It is understandable that the dead animal connoisseur might prefer his pangs assuaged, but can't the soon-to-be-poached-and-consumed creatures simply be left alone, to die in peace? Must they be paraded through the dining room in full, death-defying chipperness, assuring one and all that the pleasure is all theirs?

Speaking of parades, here is a merry little pageant of suicidal animals, all drawn from the same web site that features the Cyanide (sic) Lobster:









Taken in turn, we have

1. A chorus line of skinned shrimp, happy to perform a delightful little number before leaping into your mouth,
2. A bowl of coy clams, each with a smile on its "face,"
3. Two lobster chums, friends to the end, and
4. A final lobster bidding the world a spirited cheerio from his two-handled grave.

Highlands Heritage Pork

Aye, laddie! 'Tis naught but a wee bit o' fun for this fine, frolicsome pig! His bonnie kilt and sporren reflect his gay heart. Still and all, I dinnae ken what this mad rocket thinks he's up to.

What's this heritage the bairn's on about? Is it a custom among his people to slap on a tam, kick up your heels, and toss yourself into the grinder? What kind of heritage is that then? These dunderheids don't see themselves as people. Not even as pigs. Nae, the haddies see themselves as mere stuff—nothin but whatever's left over after you've been killed. Yer whole life is just prelude to that grand moment when yer magically transformed into the substance called pork.

Stick to the caber, pig.

O.K. Corral Ostrich Jerky

Pity the poor ostrich. Condemned so long to stroll the endless African savanna, to listen to the swaying grasses, to strut beside the mighty acacia. Their awkward forms exquisitely adept at speed and caution, they outran lions. And, from their spot in the web of life, they knew death as well. Quick, often, but sometimes, yes, drawn out. Yet they were ever cursed with freedom, the freedom to run, to sprint, to live, to die. Not even an ostrich deserves such a woeful thing as freedom. Their distant cousins—the chickens and turkeys—had long since been blessed with confinement and subjugation. (Truly, every animal's deepest wish!) But for the ostriches, it was only the trap of nature and those dreaded vast and open skies.

No more! At the O.K. Corral, the ostriches have their pens at last, and how happy they are! No longer condemned to their drab feathers, they now enjoy bowties and eyepatches (?), just like the finest gentlemen.

And, of course, along with the outfit comes the opportunity to be butchered and turned into a "100% Real," "Real Western" snack food. No wonder this ostrich looks so pleased, so smug. He's about to receive the highest honor available to a flightless bird (or any animal, for that matter): death, processing, and encasement in plastic, there to have his Nutrition Facts made plain for all to see and celebrate.

Spicy Dan's Premium Jerky

Dude.

Our Dan is groovy as well as spicy. He's got the patched bell-bottoms, the sandals, the vest. The granny glasses. The headband. The scraggly goatee. The peace sign around his neck. He's got the attitude: catch his groovin'-on-nature vibe, the way he gives the world the thumbs up. He's a hippie and he is at one.

The cow—let's call her, oh, Rainbow—is a beautiful spirit, too. She's got the hooves and the horns and the udder and everything? Life is fine. The pasture is, like, green. I mean it's green, you know? And right there, with her every step, there's Dan. These two, they are, like, together. Togetherness is a beautiful thing, man.

But something's not right. Something is wrong. Rainbow's got the pasture, right? The fields? The green? She's smiling, you know? But the smile, it's not on the inside. Her heart isn't smiling. She wants to check out. As in check out. The pasture's not enough for Rainbow. But while this is going on, like, where's Dan? He's there, but he's, like, not there. It's almost like he wants her to leave it all behind and join the Universe, you know?

A theory: Spicy Dan is The Man. Ask yourself: would a real hippie sell out his sister? No way. He would talk her down. Show her the sunrise after her dark—dark—night! Wouldn't he, like, get her through this shit? A real hippie would do that. But that's not, like, Dan's trip. He's just thinking about all the jerky he's about to score.

Like, total betrayal.

Heavy.

Mabel's Barbeque

Granted, this tasty slab of ribs is long past her/its days as a living creature, but cast your thoughts back to her/its once-upon-a-time animalhood.

Is this what she/it dreamt of, to become merely a piece—a portion—of herself/itself? Bizarre as it is to contemplate such a world, surely this is the only thing that makes sense. How else to explain the form she/it has taken and the state she/it is in? So composed, at ease, sanguine.

For who else did her/its makeup? No union specializes in the application of cosmetics to pork ribs. She/it put on her/its own face.

And then there are those Mary Janes and the feet crossed in extravagant casualness at the ankle.

The fork held aloft as though she/it is so tender—as she/it knew she/it would be—that she/it wants the first bite. Such refined sensibilities! In life, this must have been one demure pig: who eats ribs with a fork? Behavior like that would get you summarily dismissed from the Royal Order of the Grill Corps(e).

And then of course, there's that shrug, that half-smirk—here is the clincher. This is an expression of satisfaction. Everything has proceeded according to plan. And, really, isn't this the only way to dine? On food that was once a sentient being desiring nothing more than the smoky release of death? Wanted it so fervently that it is only in death that she/it can finally experience true happiness?

Lake Pleasant BBQ Cook-Off

Now now, boys! The cook-off is high-stakes, to be sure, but this? A physical confrontation? (These pigs seethe with enmity. The one pig is even baring his mysterious jigsaw puzzle tattoo. He means business!) Armed as you are with barbecue fork and stiff patty flipper, you could do some real damage! What would your corporate sponsor say? You, yellow shirted-pig! And you, black-shirted pig! There must be another way to settle your dispute without giving each other a vicious forking or spatulation.

And yet... Have we misread the situation? Perhaps the two rivals have come together, snout-to-snout, in the spirit of friendly—yet intense and manly—competition. Of course. That must be it. It's a cook-off, and they're going to cook-off their asses off. Which, in the intense and manly world of competitive barbecuing, can only mean grilling members of your own family (as well as the odd bird) and then hopping on the coals yourself.

"You call that sizzling? Listen to my meat cook!"

"You're drying out, loser! This is how you lock the juices in!"

May the tastiest pig win!

Broken R Ranch

So that's how it is at the Broken R Ranch.

On first glance, something cruel and sinister seems to be happening at the sun-baked BRR. That porcine desperado has lassoed him a prize piece of poultry and he's a-reelin' him in. (Again with this "choking the chicken" trope?) But wait!

It's not what it seems. The chicken, while being strangled harshly enough to pop out feathers, isn't pleading for help. That is not the international "I'm choking!" gesture. No. It's a wave. The chicken is waving to us. And with his left wing, he is welcoming us to the ranch. ("Ta-daaa!") Whether this is perverted or pathological, it's unwholesome. This playful pair, interrupted during a murder-suicide pact—or, is it merely prelude to the most revolting sex ever?—doesn't even have the decency to be embarrassed. The pig's ten gallon hat is pulled down tight enough to shut out the world, and the bug-eyed chicken just wants to get on with it and get it on.

Kill me, cowboy. And don't be gentle.

Frenchy's King Ro

For the record, we will stipulate that this is, in fact, a chicken, and not a quail of some kind.

Regardless of the bird’s provenance, what’s going on here would be macabre, if not for the oomph that Nawlins puts into everything. The meaning’s not buried, is it? Even though King Ro soon will be?

In the finest tradition of the Crescent City, our bird struts down Bourbon Street, backed by the swingingest dixieland combo. While the bass drum pounds and the clarinet soars, King Ro heads up his own funeral, thumbing his nose at old man Death even as the chains rattle. Finally, it’s “You want me? You got me!”

The king gives up the ghost, a smile on his beak. But don’t be blue. Ro wanted to end up this way, spinning upon the device whose name he bore. Besides, his spirit—that is to say, his taste—will last forever!

Randolph County (WV) Fishing Derby

The Fishing Fish—an exceedingly common, but previously unremarked-upon, symbolism. In this case, the fish's distinct amphibious quality should probably be chalked up to poor draftsmanship, not to any broadening of the message.

While some might argue that this represents not so much a death wish as cannibalism, this much is certain: The fish is engaged in an act of pescicide, and his expression surely reflects resignation more than horror. Those world-weary eyes! His glance is a veritable shrug.

He was not coerced into angling, no! He declares that he would rather be hooked on fishing than on drugs. Indeed, stabbing your kinsmen with a barbed hook for sport and then hauling them up into the suffocating air—or even being caught on a hook yourself, to wriggle your way to death—is hardly the worst fate.

Say it loud and say it proud! HOFNOD!

Doc Miller's Original Turkey Hook

Meet the Doc Miller's Original Turkey Hook turkey! A more florid case of Turkey Derangement Syndrome you will never find. This bird's uniform bears the face of the man who has perfected "the finest hook available today for deep frying" turkeys. The "doctor" is a one-man crusade in the War on Turkeys, and what does this bird do? Parades around shilling for him, laying down the soft-sell wherever he goes. "No, no, you don't understand. Doc Miller loves us turkeys!" (And then, inevitably, under his breath: "You bet he does. Slathered in gravy, that is!") And then: "What's that? Nothing! Just remembering something funny Doc Miller once told me! So! Can I sign you all up?"

There's a word for this sort of disciple: fanatic. A slave to the Cult of Personality, he beams, glassy-eyed. His arms are open wide, inviting you into the fold. (Arms? Has he had his wings amputated and replaced with arms in order to more closely resemble the Good Doctor?) His worldview is as warped as a wattle and he needs more converts, ever more fellows to endure the Hook.



And what of the Hook? Many are the benefits it confers upon its charges!

"[Yo]u can effortlessly screw apart the hook for easy removal from the bird. This way you don't have to handle that hot bird!"

"The hook keeps the bird from floating to the top...."

"The top of the hook will easily slide around a broom handle or wooden dowel...."

Harken to the trumpets! Is it any wonder a bird would devote his life to a product capable of such glory? (Remember that the bird in question is severely unbalanced and quite probably psychotic.)

Alas, that shot of Doc Miller's O.T.H. in action might as well be erotica to our poor turkey. Console yourself with this final thought: his disordered mind will soon be at peace—crisp, flavorful peace.






Addendum (9/22/07): Of course, with a logo this good, you knew you'd see it elsewhere.














Addendum 2 (10/23/07): And again.









Addendum 3 (11/22/07): The best one yet, this one from a company selling turkey calls! (Get it? Tomfoolery? And they fool poor ol' Tom Turkey? Oh, mercy!)

Wagon Wheel BBQ Catering Company Inc.

The Wagon Wheel gives us a new twist on a standard theme. Pinky (as the website identifies him) is not simply preparing to dive onto the grill. No, he has contrived to be sent from present-day Stilwell, Kansas, back in time to the Papal Inquisition, there to subject himself to horrors unending and the torments of the soul. Thus, the act we see the pig performing in a state of near-ecstasy. "The Devil's Bicycle," as it is known in the alternate universe under discussion, involves the penitent pedaling a burning wagon wheel, all the while dodging the Holy Spit.

We have never before met Pinky, but we know him all too well. His pathology, his utter shamelessness... Cross-eyed, he goggles humorously. His lopsided ears waggle. This has become a staple of suicidal food and it's almost more than we can bear. We look away. To spare him? Ourselves?

His Act of Faith—his auto de fe—is, truly, the sacrifice he was born to make, one that Wagon Wheel patrons receive with gladness, sloppy-fingered and besmeared of face. Still, we must ask: What weight does his sacrifice bear if it was Pinky's destiny to perform it? Could a pig so suicidal have done any different?