The Sugar Shack BBQ

Strut back in time with us, won't you, to the candy-colored utopia of 1979.

It was a time when a pig could wear a yellow vest with a purple shirt and nobody would bat an eye. Hell, a pig could lean on a giant, murderous fork, and nobody made a fuss.

Yes, back then, turkeys knew the score. (Not actual turkeys, but turkeys of the jive variety.)

In the case of Sugar, we can't say whether it's the music, the freewheeling, high-heeled atmosphere, or the simple desire to kill and be killed, but we can say the pig is working it.

There he is in front of his awkwardly slanted shack, letting the beats lure the customers. As soon as they arrive, they're treated to pig (and cow!) parts galore. And then, for his finale, Sugar impales himself on his fork and Huggy Bears his way to hip hop heaven.

And we should note that the 70s vibe notwithstanding, the folks at Sugar Shack see their enterprise as decidedly up-to-date. Their menu features the Notorious P.I.G., the Texas O.G., and Baby Got Back ribs, along with the Wrappers Delight period piece (refer to the Sugar Hill Gang album cover).

It's a puntastic punabration of epic, inner city punportions!

(Thanks to Dr. Bea for the referral.)

Maurice's Gourmet Barbeque

Oh, that damn cap! That stupid sweater ! The haughty, taunting smirk! It could only be Maurice's Gourmet Barbeque's Little Joe.

Even the bleeding-heartiest pity junkies look on Little Joe with gritted teeth, imagining all the grisly ways he might meet his end. The crazy cat ladies who scrimp to keep Puss-Puss in tuna, the critter petters, the lovers of all things furred, finned, or feathered, the cooers and cluckers and fawners—all despise him!

Little Joe unites mankind under a seething rainbow of hatred!

He erodes goodwill like so much rust devouring… an old, um… swingset. (He has disturbed us so much, our usual eloquence has evaporated!)

We thought this turkey was smug. But next to Little Joe, he appears sincere as a Methodist.

The sidelong glance, the look that says, "Go ahead. Eat me. I want you to," the hand idly scratching a thigh…

It's enough to make us…

We just…

Damn you, Little Joe!

Uncaged—Yes on Proposition 2

Before we get down to business, we must mention two things:

1) California residents, please do vote Yes on Proposition 2, the farm animal welfare bill on the November 2008 ballot.

2) While you're at it, consider voting Yes on the Little Old Lady Protection Act. LOLPA would outlaw pushing little old ladies down the stairs before mugging them. Although LOLPA has garnered much support, some detractors see in it an unnecessary restriction on personal liberty. Rest assured, LOLPA does not prohibit mugging of the elderly and would not prevent you from continuing to assault and rob anyone.

Which brings us to Uncaged. This animated Yes-on-2 production stars a pig singing a Proposition 2–related version of Stevie Wonder's classic Superstitious.




The cause is worthy. The message is repulsive and winds up recapitulating major themes of the suicidefoodist movement. The animals do not object to being raised for food, to being transformed even before their birth into a commodity. No, that is a foundational component of being an animal, and they are foursquare in favor of that. They take issue only with the specifics of their subjugation.







One might have supposed that people devoted to the welfare (if not the freedom) of animals would have preferred a less ugly approach. Was it necessary to show rows of pigs cheering as our singer/pig Sty-vie Wonder requests pleasanter confinement? Or ranks of thumbs-upping chickens pleased to be referred to as "food"? Or a veal calf (one of the "calves you will be eatin'") relieved only to stop "livin' in [its] poo"?







Back to the (imaginary) Little Old Ladies Protection Act. Just as Prop 2 calls for what should be uncontroversially humane treatment of livestock, LOLPA calls for people not to push little old ladies down flights of stairs. Who but the psychopathological could oppose such a measure?

Say that pro-LOLPA advocacy groups produced a snappy animated number. In it, darling little old cartoon ladies asked simply, "Before you mug us, please don't shove us down the stairs." Would that give you pause?

"When you mug us, you don't need to hug us! Just don't! Push! Us! Down! The! Staaairs!" Would you wonder, "Why is grandma okay with the idea of getting mugged in the first place? Couldn't they find another way of presenting their case?"

So it is with Uncaged. Surely there is a way to express support for the measure without showing animals explicitly endorsing its of-course-animals-are-still-going-to-be-killed-and-eaten presupposition.

(Thanks to Dr. Gennifer for the referral.)






Addendum: If you live in California, please do vote Yes on Prop 2. Thank you.

Party Like a Wok Star

Last time, we discussed suicide food in low places—the bins of the nation's dollar stores. From there, we travel now to the catalogs of America's hipster etailers.

And when we get there, what do we learn?

Mostly, that even those for whom T-shirts are the standard medium of self-expression (and whose self-expression is typically the expression of a non-self) yearn for animals of their own to mock.

And so, this delightful shrimp spouting a would-be catchphrase. Yes, it has an arbitrary winkiness to it, but we still can't imagine anyone repeating it.

Caught in the chopsticks, the shrimp claims to regret nothing. Instead, its imminent consumption is the quintessence of a glorious deathstyle, its final thought the exclamation point at the end of a meaningless existence.








(Thanks to Dr. Peace Farout for the referral.)

Suicide Cube: a digression

This purported plaything—this "Old Brand Magic Square"—is an artifact of a world on the brink.

When suicidefoodist symbolism is so prevalent, so commonplace, so expected that it turns up on the plasticrap from China's tireless pollution spigots, something has gone very wrong.

Is this how they see us? Is this what we've become?

When they were nailing down the details of this specimen of pre-landfill detritus, how did the discussion go?

"What graphics should we put on this thing?"

"Something Americans like."

"So, maybe a beach scene? People in sunglasses, lounging on towels?"

"No, no. You know, something all-American."

"What, like a baseball player?"

"That's good, but it's just not there. We want something that'll make any American consumer respond, you know?"

"Pig working a barbecue?"

"That's gold!"

"We're on it."

What does it say about us that we are so intimately associated with this bizarre fetish—this craving for animals whose suicidal participation is meant to provide our atonement? (Or worse, whose participation is interpreted as a humorous nullification of our responsibilities?)

That a pig tending a presumably pig-cooking barbecue is now a generic image suitable for the crummy jetsam of our dying world is almost more than we can bear.

Callears R&R Bar-B-Que

All kinds of distasteful.

1: The suggestion that being broiled over the coals is equivalent to a good workout is offensive, of course, but also… Huh?

Callears' barbecues are mobile, and the pig is… jogging, so… he's mobile, too, and… It's kind of the same thing? Right? Make sense?

2: The nothing-on-but-sneakers-and-headbands-and-wristband look is every bit as queasy-making. The pig is human enough to engage in waistline-trimming exercise—while wearing the appropriate gear—but not human enough to merit real clothing? Cover yourself!

3: The pig's expression—"Ain't this a kick!"—almost makes him immune to sympathy. Pal, you're racing to your own death, and you know it! Wipe the smile off your face!

4: Finally, if the pig's got a motorcycle, what's he doing jogging?

Who's kidding who, pig?

Capital One Bowl: 2008 Mascot Challenge

The wide world of suicidefood sports bears this slogan: The Agony of Victory, the Thrill of Defeat.

Buffaloes, pigs, and bulls train for years for their one shot to be pummeled in the ring. Crabs race for the boiling winner's circle. Turkeys huff and puff toward the finish line and the pile of stuffing that will be rammed inside them.

It's a peculiarly tidy summation of an entire repulsive aesthetic.

When it comes to the Capital One Bowl, we are encouraged to identify with college football mascots steeped in the confluence of sport, barbecue, self-destructive impulses, and unseemly exhibitionism. These mascots—Aubie, Mr. Wuf, The Bird, Smokey, and the rest—are competing for… Well, for something.

We apologize for our vagueness. We honestly don't understand what in the name of poor, deluded animal-shaped mascots this is. It is, apparently, some sort of contest—one that people actually care about?—wherein animal characters boast of their edibility and/or barbecuing skills.














We are informed that the University of South Carolina's Cocky "finds a good marinade bath very refreshing." That the flesh of North Dakota State's Thundar makes a "strangely delicious gourmet burger." And, weirdly, that the University of Maryland's Testudo has flavors that "come slowly." Proud of their palatability, enamored of their willingness to be destroyed, they dance and preen and exhort, even as they represent the athletic departments of fine institutions of higher learning.

Yes, we have ventured once again into the shadowy mirrorworld of suicidefoodism, where thoughts are slick with animal fat. They slip away, borne on a wisp of illogic, always out of reach. And so, clutching our papers, fleeing the lengthening shadows, we run. Back to the light. Back to a world that welcomes us with the comforts of reason.

(Thanks to Dr. Anastasia for the referral.)

17th Annual State of Nebraska Barbeque Championship

Many have wondered. They have looked upon the psychological wreckage at the heart of the suicidefoodist movement and asked, "Why?"

Yes, we know that "food" animals are suicidal. We know that death is their highest ambition, their noblest aspiration. But why?

The 17th Annual State of Nebraska Barbeque Championship gives us some insight.

It's all about prestige. For some suicidal "food" animals, suffering and death are merely necessary. For these discerning few, the act of dying needlessly isn't enough. They want to go out on a flaming Viking pyre of fame.

And what better way to achieve fame than being grilled to perfection by Nebraska's finest animal cookers? While their skin sizzles and puckers, the rockabilly pig, the prankish chicken, and the dumb-but-well-meaning cow bask in the red-hot reflected glory of this Greater Omaha Barbeque Society–sanctioned event.

Reef n' Beef

We have not spent time with the imposter meme for quite a while. We find this example every bit as insidious as anything the suicidefoodists have concocted.

In order to meet an arbitrary standard—unAustralian food need not apply—the animals deny their very identities.

Don't you see? The animals will settle for nothing less than death. If they cannot achieve it through honest means—the pleading, the demanding, the brazen flesh-peddling we've seen so many times we have nothing left to vomit—they will achieve it through fraudulent means. What choice have they been given by Reef n' Beef? (Yes, they really do want the apostrophe there.)

Masquerading as the newest "It" animal of the gastronome's changing tastes, the pig hopes for the best. Perhaps his consumers will be so meat-drunk they won't notice the crude stitching, the ill-fitting tail.

And what must this pig be thinking? So long the despised darling of the professional carnivore class, to find himself forced to impersonate a crocodile? A beast whose meat is typically disdained, whose skin alone is ordinarily deemed worthy of exploitation?! The Earth wobbles on its axis.






















Cows as kangaroos, chickens as emus.

Whatever it takes, people. Whatever it takes.

(Thanks to Dr. Elaine for the referral.)

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?

Cranky Joe's

Any normal, life-loving pig in this position would be cranky. Born to die, fated to be dominated. Who wouldn't be cranky? Or, well, demoralized, maybe, or infuriated, depending on the animal's position on the introverted/extroverted continuum. In any event, crankiness hardly seems out of line.

But remember where you are. You are not in a rational land, a land founded on sound propositions and their logical conclusions. No.

You have stumbled into a world of corruption, a world where even axioms are held up to doubt and ridicule. Where the very concept of truth has been hounded to the borderlands.

Cranky Joe is cranky not because of injustice. Rather, it is because no one is properly saucing him. Untended, he is required to sauce himself. He must see to the details of his death and grilling, and that is what's got him in a bad mood: They're not cooking him right.







Addendum: Are you, like us, reminded of the Bad Boyz Barbecue pig, peeved because his would-be executioner's aim was poor?

Addendum 2: The other day's installment of purported comic strip Crock is likewise relevant. The chicken is upset due to laundry-related matters, not the prospect of being boiled to death.