My Daughter's Place Steakhouse

We don't know what, precisely, is going on here, but each possibility is more horrific than the last.

Possibility #1: The cow is the mother and her daughter has been lovingly transformed into the food in the bowl. Whatever food it might be. Steak donuts? Perhaps it is only her brains? (Let's call this the "My Daughter's Final Resting Place" hypothesis.)

Possibility #2: The cow is the daughter and the mother's final resting place is the big, blue bowl. The mother's pride reaches from the afterworld as she encourages her to "Eat, eat! You're nothing but skin and bones. Oh, and udder."

Possibility #3: The cow is the daughter and her mother is the proprietress of the steakhouse who has forced her daughter to eat her father as a cruel test of her filial devotion. (And/or father-hatred.)

Regardless, the question remains: Have these people learned nothing from the Mad Cow scares of the late 90s? Cows eating parts of cow carcasses is never a good thing.

We would love to hear your thoughts on these hypotheses. Please do feel free to use our comments section for that purpose.

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.

Imperial Catfish

Ignore the mixed metaphor. (Is Imperial a superhero—the tights, the underwear-on-the-outside, the cape, the musclehead posturing? Or is he an emperor—the crown, the name?) What's important is Imperial's imperious countenance, his haughty bearing, his determination to be the most delicious damn fish you ever encountered.

Look at those "whiskers"! The eyebrows more typically seen on the face of a tsar! The deadly, medusa-like gaze! Imperial is not to be trifled with.

And, as with all kings from the land of suicide food, his highness's every command involves his being eaten. "Kneel, commoner! Kneel and hack me apart! A lemon, a lemon! My kingdom for a lemon!"

The madness of suicidefoodist royalty makes King George III look stone-cold sober. Perhaps it's the inbreeding, or the isolation from everyday folk. Whatever the cause, Imperial Catfish and his mammalian (usually porcine) counterparts are crazy as shit-house rats. Do we have the courage to say the emperor has no clothes?

Well? Do we?

Pigman's Bar-B-Que

Another Suicide Food post, another trashy pig nuzzling a guy with a beard.

In her striped tubetop, the she-pig represents the sexual confusion so common in suicidefoodist imagery. (And what exactly is the left-side of the banner covering up? Is the sow wearing bottoms? Please! Let her be wearing bottoms.) The suicidefoodist dwells inside a muddle of conflicting impulses. Not since this porcine black widow have we seen such an example of psychological turmoil. Prey as love interest. Paramour as foodstuff. To love = to destroy = to love.

We are reminded of Les Murray's poem, "In a Time of Cuisine."

A fact the gourmet
euphemism can't silence:
vegetarians eat sex,
carnivores eat violence

All this analysis is well and good, but the Pigman requires us to look deeper, if we can bear it. Seeing as a so-called "breast man" finds breasts especially erotic, and a "leg man" is captivated by the sight of shapely legs, what can we say of the sexual proclivities of a self-described "pigman"? Is he, in fact, a pig pickin' man, one who always selects a certain—shall we say?—breed of companion?

Could there be another interpretation? Yes, of course! The truth has been staring us in the face, so close we can't escape the whiff of its stench. We had proceeded under the assumption that the Pigman in question is the proprietor of Pigman's Bar-B-Que. (There is no shame in the honest mistake!)

To continue, many a restaurateur names his establishment, his economic and creative pride and joy, after his offspring, his emotional and familial pride and joy. In this scenario, Pigman (that is to say pig-man) must surely be the unholy hybrid offspring of the bearded gentleman and the floozy sow! A touching act of dedication, but also a foul betrayal of our shared humanity.

(Thanks to Dr. Jessica for the referral.)






Addendum: Dr. Badchae sent us this image, taken in Busan, South Korea, and what better place to ditch it than this post? Honestly, these sexy pigs are almost more than we can endure. That this archetype should be so widespread causes us more confusion, more outright concern, than you can know.


Addendum 2 (5/12/08): Dr. Melisser sent us this horrid thing. Who would have known that sexy sows in hotpants—it's the same picture!—would become a universal language?

MOgridder's BBQ

The perfect family: the happy hillbilly Head of Household, the pig (who, even though hairless, seems to be actively balding), and the cow. You can see the love, the respect, the fun in their eyes. These folks sit around sipping cider and launching into warm "Remember the time we?" stories. They represent an ideal we can all aspire to.

Of course, in our tabloid-centric world, we love our idols only until we find their Achilles heels and bring them crashing to the ground. Then we dust ourselves off and look for someone new to adore. Temporarily.

All of which is another way of saying we don't trust this "perfect" family unit. There must be something, some secret wriggling behind those smiles. Sure, the animals seem to enjoy their role as perpetual "food" animals. They seem to accept their place in barbecue's unbending hierarchy. But could anything really be so clean, so tidy, so loving?

We'll put it this way: Have you seen the four-time Oscar-winning film Ordinary People? If you have, you undoubtedly remember the "camera scene," a stunning example of family dynamics turned explosive. While the Jarretts pose and get into position for a family photo, the mundane awkwardness and irritation of close quarters and domestic life shoot cracks through the veneer of their happiness.

Timothy Hutton's Conrad to Mary Tyler Moore's Beth (we paraphrase): Just take the goddamn picture already!

Always there, simmering below the surface of the Jarrett family's idyllic life together, demons lurked.

And when our barbecue family draw the curtains closed after another successful gathering of friends and well-wishers, when their hidden selves are free to frolic, their love curdles in the presence of fear and murderous hypocrisy.

This is the true face of the suicidefoodist family: a psychopathic hayseed with a shotgun fixin' to kill him a terrified pig and cow.

McDonald's in China

Just when you thought nothing could be more soul-deadening than good old, American-as-apple-pie McDonald's, along comes the ubiquitous burger-pusher's Chinese cousin. And our already-dead souls molder and crumble. We find ourselves, against all sense, longing for the commodified, the prepackaged, the sterile sameness we know so well. If this is the alternative to artificial uniformity, we'll take artificial uniformity, thank you all the same.

This glossy image of an aerobicizing cow, glancing our way invitingly, with brazen sexuality, should be enough to discourage anyone from eating at the aforementioned establishment. Alas, we live in a world less rational. (A chicken-and-egg riddle to ponder: Which came first, images like this one, or the minds that respond to such images as intended? Either answer is unimaginable.)

According to a commenter at the site where this picture was disinterred, the Chinese reads "Enticing beef makes you more seductive."

Give that a chance to settle.

We've discussed the ancient, unfathomable Cult of the Bull before, but now we must do it again. According to this atavistic philosophy—an unpalatable brew of superstition and numbskullery—eating a bull confers upon you the properties of a bull. Only this can explain why beef-eating remains so popular.

Unfortunately for us, the advertising agency that concocted the fit and sexy cow also coughed up these images.

Again, our commenter provides the translations:

"Vigorous beef makes you more vigorous" for the pro-youth culture cow. And "Strong beef makes you stronger" for the iron pumper.

Funny, isn't it, to see the same anthropomorphism that dedicated carnivores so sneeringly decry when it surfaces in the arguments of staunch plant-eaters. "But you are ascribing human sentiments to animals," they huff. "Please! Be rational!" In these images, we see cows posed and clothed as humans, and their similarity to us is now offered as an argument in favor of our eating them.

We can but shake our heads and hope that tomorrow will be kinder.



(Thanks to Dr. Mrs. Suicidefood for the referral.)

Pig'N Whistle

In this touching piece of nostalgia, we see a horde of swine-serfs pouring out of Castle Meatmore, wending their way down into the valley, bearing trays and serving dishes and long, um... flutes? And beribboned boxes? (Okay, so the fare is a little... eccentric.)

How the palace glows (putting this dump to shame), how it lights the sky, a beacon of good taste! And what generosity for the lord of the manor to have the staff leave Pig's Peak to heap luxury upon the commoners!

As for the staff: it's all the same to them. As long as they're devoting themselves to the service of others, they're happy.

If you will allow a note of skepticism to intrude upon this gracious tableau, you might well ask why these are pigs, and not waiters and cooks of the human variety, streaming from the castle. The answer is simple: The pig motif handily emphasizes that Pig'N Whistle—not to be confused with Pig-N-Whistle—commands a vertiable army of pigs ready to devote themselves to you in whatever capacity you should desire, whether companion, servant, or main course. More than being easy to please, they are impossible not to please. In fact, their pleasure, being guaranteed, is irrelevant. As much as we might like to pretend otherwise, it is not native to them, as it is derived wholly from your pleasure.

The perfect vassal! We can mold him into any shape to satisfy any need!

(Thanks to Dr. Bazu for the referral and the image.)







Addendum: Here is the source of the picture, the charming May i take your Order?—American Menu Design 1920–1960 by Jim Heimann.

Japan Whaling Association

Too long have chickens and pigs, cows and lambs—even rattlesnakes!—borne the honorable burden of holding aloft suicidefoodism's grimy, tattered banner.

Now, thanks to the beneficence of the Japan Whaling Association—do you picture men in top hats and monocles, clutching antique harpoons with scrimshaw shafts?—the giants of the deep have their shot at glory. Oh, sure, technically many species of whale are endangered. And, indisputably, whales are intelligent creatures with their own societies. But now, here, they have the option of seeking to be killed and eaten. For how long has man denied them this opportunity? For how long has man withheld from them that cherished right of all free peoples, the right of representing economic concerns dedicated to their very destruction?

The JWA means to atone.

The first cetacean gentleman (on the left), the fellow angrily holding the knife and fork, assures us that "whale meat is safe." He is affronted by the very idea that Japan's human citizens might have thought otherwise and forsworn him and his kin. That they should act as though they were better than him! Outrageous! Too good to eat whale? It's safe! Safe!

The waiter/chef to his right is more sanguine. After all, he doesn't need to convince anyone—he's already serving a willing customer. He buoyantly urges, "Let's all cook and eat me."

Good for you, whales! Before you know it, you'll have all of Japan up to their wrists in bloody whale meat. And then the sea's the limit!

(Thanks to Dr. Torque for the referral and the translation assistance.)






Addendum: Dr. Mrs. Suicidefood shows us that other Japanese whales are eager to get in on the act!

Kicking Bear

In Suicidefoodism's pantheon of scorned gods, the Keeper of the Sacred Bull's-eye occupies a hallowed niche. Along with the Complicit Animal and the Martyred Pig, the Keeper—the Targeted One—is an icon of the highest importance.

In his current incarnation, the Keeper is a white bear called (we have spontaneously decreed) Goofybear. It is Goofybear's solemn purpose to act as a foil for the hunter, to shore up the hunter's sagging self-image. "Nature's not so tough," he soothes. "Just look at ol' Goofybear! I'm not scary, right? Nope, just dumb and goofy. A big ol', dumb ol', goofy ol' bear! Go on. Take a shot! I'll even pose right here in front of my bull's-eye for you!"

What of the vaunted reverence the hunter claims to hold for his noble prey? Reverence? Does this bear—this kicked and ridiculed bear—look to you like an object of worship? No, for that is not how the Church of Suicidefoodism works. Its gods are anti-gods, idols made to be broken, smashed upon the altar.

Goofybear's purpose also includes bringing in the younger crowd. The Church needs new converts, you know. Today's secular culture is doing a poor job of indoctrinating children into the joys of hunting bears. (It's not just dead bears at Kicking Bear, though. No, sir! It's also deer, coyotes, turkeys... You name it!)

Goofybear's doing his part. Bless you, Goofybear.

El Pollo Supremo

We've seen this particular affliction—Self-Destructive Narcissism—before (here and here most notably), but never in such florid form!

The symptomology of the disorder includes an obsessive attention to physical improvement, delusions of one's own authority, and unrelenting suicidal ideation.

As a case study, let's take a look at Mr. P.S.

Alas, he is a living contradiction: The obvious pride he takes in his grotesque appearance—have we caught him gazing adoringly at his own biceps?—is canceled out by the role he has assigned himself. He is not a defender of the weak and downtrodden, nor an advocate for the needy, nor a proponent of truth, justice, and other traditional superheroic values. Nor even, we should say, a garden-variety looking-out-for-number-one-er.

No, like regular, mild-mannered suicidal animals, Mr. P.S. exists solely to announce that he—and the lesser poultry he is meant to be defending—can be consumed at this establishment, on either an "Eat Here" or "Take Out" basis.

And here we see the real damage caused by his Self-Destructive Narcissism: by giving himself up so completely to his will to die, he robs the poultry people of a hero.