Saucy Butts BBQ

It has been a while—more than two years, in fact—since we last saw a pig exhibit such a florid case of psychiatric illness.

That his haunches be saucy is apparently of the gravest import to this pig. We detect the hallmarks of obsessive-compulsive disorder in the enthusiastic drenching. Do you get the feeling that this is not the first time he has gone through this ritual? Perhaps… not even the first time today?

We wonder: in the pig's mental ledger, does he come out ahead? Is it all worth it? Is there anything rational left inside his overthrown mind that can weigh the outcomes and arrive at a conclusion?

And may we observe how sad it is that the pig's knowledge of his own body is so poor. Yes, he is saucing his "butt," but pork butt refers not to the meat of a pig's rump, but of his shoulder. How strange, how wrong, that we—of all people!—should know this, while the pig does not.

What We've Been Missing 2: a digression

Do you remember our first "What We've Been Missing" digression? We do. In fact, we haven't been able to get the rancid taste out of our mouth. We are referring, of course, to the flavor of regret.

Oh! Had we but made other choices! Had we taken a different path through life's mysterious terrain, our palates would have been richly rewarded! Looking at culinary creations like these, we begin to understand the instructive "Yum, meat!" comments we receive so often here.

Please note: All "What We've Been Missing" entrées were prepared by actual (undisclosed) food establishments. With a straight face.


The Bristle 'n' Gristle Sandwich is a real mouth-waterer. Look! Some of it is trying to escape!











Is this a spread, or is this a spread? It's the perfect main dish for your next party of buzzards and other carrion-eaters! Just set the poor thing out, and let 'em pick and peck away.









The steak that doubles as a hankie. (Gesundheit.)










This only looks like flaccid, fermented cardboard on a bun. It's actually steamed or… boiled animal parts. On a bun.

The Barbecue/Golf Conspiracy

Golf-playing pigs are the shock troops in a war to cloud your mind.

Cowboys in hotdog form—paradoxical, bizarre, beyond comprehension—were only the first wave of combatants in the War on Rationality. Or, well, to be honest, they were only one wave. There have been a great many. The realm of mental integrity is all but overrun.














This is Black Ops activity here. Real "Hearts and Minds" stuff. Their soft target: your ability to retain your sanity.

Their primary weapon is the sheer nonsensical nature of blending the Harold Ramis comedy classic with suicidal animals. Remember the lovably tenacious gopher? Caddyshack should go down as a testament to a powerful life-force, not another excuse to exalt a cadre of carefree death-seekers!

And, yes, it is an eerie coincidence (or is it?) that we're seeing the suicidefoodistic exploitation of yet another 1980 comedy that starred Saturday Night Live cast members! We told you about the curious case of The Blues Brothers a few months ago. When can we expect to see barbecue based on the 1980 Gilda Radner and Harry Shearer vehicle Animalympics? Sounds like a natural.

Virginia BBQ Pirates

Not the first pig pirate—this was—but the fanciest. Captain Porkbeard is all done up in Pirate Chic, with the breeches, the coat, the hat, and the swashbucklingest belt buckle this side of Jamaica.

He might be an outlaw and a scoundrel, but he knows his place. And so he judges a pig's worth by its palatability, its usefulness to humans.

Remember, this is Suicidefoodland, where men are men and animals are… barely even objects. So the pirate, long a symbol of danger, dastardly deeds, and dark-hearted greed, is rendered a willing pawn. Yes! A pirate! He who bows before no one, who recognizes no law but his own, who epitomizes everything violent and free! This pirate is nothing more than a victim.

Thus is the power of suicidefoodism to bend everything—every vestige of wild nature, of power, of life—to its ghoulish interests.







Addendum: A kindred spirit?











Addendum 2 (12/05/10): And another?

Breaking News: Lobsters' Plans Thwarted

NPR has reported that one Anthony Jones has been sentenced to four years in prison for stealing 91 lobster tails from Bally's Atlantic City casino.

Morning Edition's Renee Montagne puts it all in perspective when she reminds us that the lobsters were "not so lucky, either; the twelve hundred seventy-five dollars' worth of seafood was destroyed."

And isn't that the real crime here?

All those weeks (months?) languishing in Bally's famed tanks, amassing their lucrative flesh, awaiting their lives' culmination! And then… And then it all comes to nothing! They go unbought and—far, far worse—uneaten by casino patrons.

Never have lobsters been so wronged!

Walt's Barbeque

Talk about friendly! Walt's just oozes with kindness.

The benevolent smile. The head cocked at a non-threatening angle. The "I'll be your pal forever" eyebrows.

But does Walt—if the pig indeed is Walt—really think we're buying it? This whole routine reminds us of our "favorite" headhunter joke:

Headhunter 1: I don't like your mother.
Headhunter 2: That's okay. Just eat around her.

(Pause for laughter and applause.)

Sure, Walt just loves pigs. When they're properly sauced and plated, that is.

(Pause for laughter and applause.)

Seriously, folks, look at the picture up there. The pig—one of Walt's beloved—has been reduced to a glistening slab of bones and flesh.

This is not the behavior the pigs were promised. They've been deceived. We all have.

Motor City Barbeque Co.

Detroit's not messing around. Detroit is real. Detroit is serious. Detroit has you right where it wants you. Detroit will fuck your shit up.

How tough is it?

In Detroit, the pigs dare you to eat them.

They barrel down Woodward in a cherry '57 Chevy, wearing their colors, their old lady calling all the chumps to chow. They're hauling the barbecue behind them. Giving you a head start. Giving you points.

You got what it takes? You want a piece of this? Detroit says, "Bring it."

By the end, you'll be gnawing on their bones. And the pigs? They're still smiling. You just got played.

You think you got Detroit beat? Like shit you do.

Williamsburg Salumeria

These happy inmates, their words obscured by thoughtful prison bars!

"I'm hot," says he.

Says she, "I'm sweet."

"Try us both," they say, adding, "We're a treat!!"

Never have victims been more willing. He is proud, she coy. The both of them so playful.

Representing a mom-and-pop salumeria in Brooklyn, Mr. and Mrs. Pig want only to please. To lure. To draw. To advertise.

To die.

(Thanks to Dr. Sandra for the referral and photo.)

Swinewerks

So seldom do we see the sacrificial beasts taking such an active interest in the means of their deliverance. Yes, of course, we know the animals who line up, chins raised, to await the ax. And, surely, we know the creatures who exhort their killers to put some muscle into it.

But these two are loyal employees down at the swinewerks. They are no mere objects. They are agents, full of their own intentions. Let the others march across the killing floor, visiting each station in turn. This pig and chicken have a job to do, and not merely a destiny to fulfill.

See the pride the pig takes in the sharpness of his fork.

See the concentration on the chicken's face as the cleaver's edge is honed.

A thing worth doing is a thing worth doing well.

And when their time comes—as it must, as certain as the heart's relentless beating—do you think our perfectionists will leave the task to someone else? Not on your life!

Richard's Meat Market

King Richard provides another example of fool-headed animals snookered by a cheap crown. (Remember this one? How about this one?)

It's like he thinks he's actually in charge. Does he not wonder at the ascension of an overall-wearing clodhopper to the throne? Does he not know whence the ingredients for the boudin come? (Boudin, by the way, is a sausageal product popular, among other places, in the Bayou.) Does he not notice that the population of his squalid kingdom dwindles? Does he not see the humans with the knives behind their backs?

He is a useful puppet. Nothing more. After he has united the "people" beneath a sausage-colored banner—boudin comes in blanc, noir, and rouge varieties—they will be sacrificed. And when they're gone, it will be his turn to be hoisted upon the machinery of state and brought down to his ultimate level.

But who knows? Maybe he has sensed history unfolding about him. Maybe he has decided that serving as a temporary figurehead is worth it.

(Thanks to Dr. skeletonkrewe for the photo.)








Addendum: We can't tell. Is this young pig happy to be turned into living sausage? Or on the verge of tearful panic? He is not a vassal of King Richard's, so far as we know—just a miserable subject of some nameless boudin-based tyrant.

All-American BBQ

I'm a grand old pig,
I'm a fine-frying pig,
Sizzling ever in grease that you crave!
I'm the emblem of
The cult I love,
The one that supplies me my grave!

(Everybody!)

Every hog lies dead
'Neath the blue, white, and red,
Where the lackeys are porcine and big.
Should auld self-int'rest be forgot,
Keep your eye on the dying pig!









Addendum: Enjoy our patriotic post from the Fourth of July, 2007!

Wintzell's Oyster House

Our oyster from Mobile, Alabama, demonstrates the peculiarly American attitude toward violence and sex. Observe.

Fry her and she merely gasps from the heat, fanning herself with a hankie—or washcloth or whatever—and readying her bathbrush.

Stew her and she splashes in her "tub," luxuriating in the bath.

But catch her naked and that's where she finally objects. Violence is perfectly acceptable, all a part of life. But nudity? Horrors!

No, you had probably never cast an oyster in a voyeuristic scenario such as this. That's a gambit reserved for dedicated suicidefoodists, not laypeople.

Beyond the examination of quaint American hang-ups and topsy-turvy priorities, what this shows us is an oyster who would rather be killed and eaten than just about anything else.

(Thanks to Mississippi Snopes for the photo.)

Papaya Pete's Chicken Hut

Nice to see you! Come on in!

Stuck in the depressingest of milieux—the mid-Atlantic theme park concession stand—Papaya Pete gallantly makes the best of a bad situation.

Cock-a-doodle-dooing from the fake façade, surrounded by an unlikely floral border, he beckons the hungry, the thirsty, the rollercoastered-out. He'll feed them all.

He is a crowing beacon to themeparkers everywhere.

Delight in every manner of chicken product. (We assume.) The strip, the finger, the nugget! All await you inside!


And he's not above coming down onto the shop floor, mixing with the appallingly unwashed masses, touting the questionable benefits of the establishment's various menu items.

He never stops selling. In fact, he'll keep selling right up to the blessed moment when he turns himself into product, the importantest stuff on Earth.














Addendum: What gives with all these poultry mascots with the initials P.P.? Pete marks the third one we've seen! (Remember El Pollo Pepe?)

Wondercow: a dairy digression

For years, we have avoided breaching the dairy dam. Cows willingly in service to the dairy "farmers" aren't exactly suicidal. Well, not directly. More like severely masochistic. But this image has compelled us to wade into the milky mire.

We've seen ratfink farm employees before. And we've seen superhero-style Submissive Dominants before. But never have we seen a single figure who captured both of those nauseating archetypes so well. (This one took a valiant stab at it.)

And think about it: how does this make the least bit of sense? A cow championing the system, the entire worldview, that categorizes her as property—chattel! (Cattle, of course, being related to this legal term denoting tangible personal property.)

Here she is, "trapped by dairy price web." Does she enjoy her life of servitude? Is she fond of the machines that take the place of her nursing young, long gone to their own dark fates? Can you even begin to imagine how, as powerful as Wondercow is, she would fret and fight on the dairy industry's behalf?

In this, she's no different from any other submissive dominant we've seen, those craven colossuses who could easily put an end to their victimhood, but who won't. No! Like Wondercow, they take a perverse pride in their self-imposed impotence!

And we hate to be indelicate, but where are Wondercow's udders? We don't ask idly. She has a skirt and earrings, so we know she's female. She's a cow, after all. But why then does she have the physique—the abs and pecs—of a human male? Canadian dairy farmers rely on the secretions of her mammary glands and the mammary glands of her innumerable sisters. It's almost as if the Canadian Restaurant and Foodservices Association, the creators of Wondercow, are uneasy about the whole matter. Strange time to get bashful. They've built an entire industry on those secretions, and now they're playing dumb?

(Thanks to Dr. procrastiknitter for the referral.)