Swine-O-Mite BBQ Team

It's down to the wire: what will kill this poor, crazy pig? Will it be his patented Explosion Hat®, or the hardworking men and women at the local slaughterhouse? (At this moment, the odds are explosion: 65%; slaughterhouse: 33%; stray bullet: 2%.)

Whatever happens, his remains will end up on the insatiable grill, and that's the name of the pig's game. He's not motivated by thoughts of cheating his butchers. For him, it's just about dying and winding up in someone's stomach. How he gets there is more a matter of concern for the touts and punters. Let the gamblers worry about the cause of death. The pig's got a final journey to prepare for.

And look at that crazy, tongue-wagging expression. Do you think the Swine-O-Mite pig cares how he meets his maker? No way! Not him!

(Now the newest odds are explosion: 70%; slaughterhouse: 28%; stray bullet: 2%.)

As long as he gets to die, and can soothe himself with the belief that he can thank his maker for the opportunity to experience an exquisite death—for so noble a cause as the thoroughly redundant exploits of yet another barbecue team—the pig has no complaints.







Addendum (9/09/08): As Dr. Schnauzer points out (see comments), the pig is an obvious homage to Kid Dyn-o-Mite himself, Jimmie Walker. Even as we apologize for missing this, we ask, "Jimmie Walker? Is he an actual cultural touchstone? Does his image scream 'barbecue team'?"

Klement's Racing Sausages

See, it's like the Colosseum:

Slaves, captured enemies, hapless desperadoes—all the refuse from society's unswept corners—they caper and are destroyed for our amusement.

From the far reaches of the globe they are brought. From the hinterlands and newly conquered territories they are hauled. (Pictured here, from left to right: The Hot Dog, The Polish Sausage, The Italian Sausage, The Bratwurst. Not shown: El Chorizo.)

Once here, they are made to run for us. To compete. To battle in the supposedly idealized realm of athleticism. So it was with the gladiators of old.

And how we cheer! (Well, maybe not we, but someone cheers.) Just knowing that this ambulatory foodstuff will run itself ragged for our dubious benefit, and then fling itself onto the fire—winner and loser alike!—adds another layer of festivity to the already-cloying atmosphere.

The artificial rivalry diverts them, prevents them from turning to us, we who applaud their lives spent in death's shadow. Their rage fanned and stoked, they create their own chains.

This is the big-time for these wieners. This is the nearest they will ever get to freedom. This too-brief sprint is the closest they will get to flight. We validate them for only as long as it takes them to round the bases. And then we allow them their crippled imitation of freedom for only as long as it takes to wolf them down. (Again, not we we, but, you know.)

Run, you sausages! You franks! You variously constituted, extruded meat objects! Dance!

Don Juan Rotisserie Chicken

Though best known as a seducer and a dueler, a libertine and a rake, Don Juan had a later career (apparently) as a professional victim. The cape, the hat, the rapier: here, but props. Empty, and mocking for their emptiness.

And see what the Don Juan Rotisserie Chicken company has done!

They have transformed a legendary figure ruled by his passions—for women, for conquest, for sheer bloody-minded selfishness—into a chicken.

A chicken ruled by the one grand anti-passion: the feverish desire to die. In his case, to be impaled and cooked, slowly unfurling the mortal coil and enfolding himself in a shroud of his own crisp skin.

(Are we meant to read into the logo—with its searing orange backdrop—the cautionary tale of Don Juan's encounter with the graveyard statue? The statue who came to life, grabbed Don Juan, and took him to Hell? Don Juan the chicken is extending his hand, all but begging to be dragged into his own Hell!)

When the most alive among us, the outrageous, the bold, the proud, the dangerous, are reduced to inert examples of self-denial, what hope have we got? When the example of a life apart, a life freed from the constraints of society, of propriety, of lawfulness, even of sense itself, is turned on its head, do we laugh? Weep? Or stumble numbly into a world we no longer recognize?

Or do we chuck it all and eat some dead birds?

(Painting: Max Slevogt, 1912.)

Manny's BBQ & Catering

This is some good old-fashioned animal hating! Manny's really gets 'em coming and going!

Pigwaiter's mortification begins with submitting to waiting on us. He affects an air of snobbery—that snout in the air!—but he is ever our domestic flunky. He still uses the service entrance and responds with haste to every snapping customer. "Boy? Oh, boy! More chablis!"

Of course, Pigwaiter's debasement doesn't end there. If only!

No, he serves the ribs of his kin. The ribs are fresh from the ovens and he carries the platter aloft to the tables and the salivating diners like the ring-bearer holding high his blessed pillow.

File this under "Adding Insult to Injury." Bad enough that they force Pigwaiter to serve his eventual consumers, but to compel him to bring them pig ribs!

Then again, could so proud a beast as Pigwaiter allow himself to be exploited that way? Perish the thought! He is here of his own volition. For reasons no sane observer can fathom, he loves putting on the ol' cummerbund, punching in, and dishing up Grandma.

Pigwaiter, you're one for the books.

Smokin' Pigs BBQ Team

A more troubling abuse of power we have not seen in a long while. These two good ol' boys (of the pig persuasion) flout traffic laws for what is distinctly personal business. They flash their tin stars, turn on the gumball machine, and make everyone get out of the way.

Their "emergency"? They're late to a funeral: their own. It's like cashing in your life insurance while you've still got time to enjoy the money. Such dedication to the art of dying!

And what of the dog? It is a curious phenomenon. Humanoid pigs (they wear clothes, they drive cars, they have jobs—yet they will nevertheless be eaten) have a regular animal animal for a pet. The dog in the bed of the pickup is just a dog. His tongue lolls as he enjoys the simple beastly pleasures of riding into the wind.

And may we point out the howls of protest that would ensue were a vegetarian outfit to equate law enforcement officers with pigs?

Hottest Chick -n- Wing Festival

A punk-pixie rocker chick chick. Motorcycles. The silhouettes of speedboats and circus tents. Fireworks and a flammable font! This festival's got it all!

And that includes the irresistible urge to cast a "food" animal in the role of a sexy chickie who's just asking for it. She plays for the crowd, gets them all revved up, and then it's a quick trip backstage for wing removal.

The questions ever gnaw at us, prick us, disturb our digestion, and interrupt our sleep: Why do they do this?

If they want to remind visitors of the "delicious" "food" in store, why not show pictures of it? Why must the main course be costumed in the guise of a living, breathing, consenting, rocking creature? Does this make the meal go down easier? Why is this shorthand—happy animal acting as the humans do—necessary?

And why are rebellious mediums (motorcycle culture, rock 'n' roll) so often used as the backdrop for this particularly virulent subservience?

Jurassic Pork

Shove your head through a couple plate glass windows and this will all make perfect sense.

Until then, however, you're on your own.

This thing is a jumble of conflicting symbolism: is Jurassic pork big and gamy? Is it just really, really old?

Its one suicidefoodistically pure element, naturally, is the theme of the Submissive Dominant (last seen in this manly example). To refresh your memory—so many lofty concepts to assimilate!—the Submissive Dominant is a depiction of the targeted animal as a superpredator, giant, or invincible being who, nevertheless, wants to be killed. The Submissive Dominant is the ultimate shill for the abattoirs, the Movement's ace in the hole.

In this case, a Jurassic therapod (we assume it's T. rex, although T. rex lived in the Cretaceous and didn't sport a Puff the Magic Dragon tail) has melded with a pig. And how does P. rex express his physical superiority? Does he chase down humanity like so much puny prey?

No, silly. He grabs a knife and fork, becomes the mascot of the barbecue team, and waits patiently for his turn on the spit. In fact, far from exercising his prerogative as a killing machine, P. rex has really let himself go. His gut hangs down over his scaly waist and he probably smells of booze even when he rolls out of bed at noon.

Bonus: A glimpse of P. rex's back.

Burger King Cheesy Bacon Tendercrisp

Warning: The following discussion could lead to brain damage.

A certain recent advertisement has the power to send impotent rationality back to its hated realm.

Shocking disclosure: The ad is for a Burger King product.

Who would have thought Burger King, of all animal-adoring institutions, would inspire a degenerate advertisement?

The commercial in question is a shrine dedicated to debasement. Hogs scampering smilingly onto the killing floor? Chickens volunteering for target practice? Steers enamored of their own enslavement? Ho-hum. What commonplace perversion. We have opened files on hundreds of those animals.

No, Burger King gives us a real pro, a true believer, a hard-core devotee of the suicidefoodist movement. On to the commercial:

A nebbishy nobody enjoys a burger in his car at the local Makeout Point. He is alone. This is merely the first horrific detail. (Does he love his sandwich? You know, love love it? Sexually?) Before we can ponder that for too long, a cow appears in the headlights. The man is nervous. The cow is an avenging spirit, sent to cast the cow-eater into fiery torment for his vicious crimes against—

No. She's there because she's… jealous. The man has betrayed her trust by having sex with eating the meat of another. Yes, the cow's rage is the rage of the jilted lover. Hell hath no fury like a woman cow scorned uneaten. Aglow with righteousness, she exacts vengeance by ramming the man's car—with him in it—over a cliff.










To make sure you get the right message, the announcer intones: "Chicken so good, you'll cheat on beef."

This is the vilest conflation of sex and violence we have ever seen. There's nothing for us to do now but vomit.

(Thanks to Drs. Jared and Mary for the referral.)

Porkin in the Park

The innocent joys of young love!

Yes, these youthful sweethearts—the boyish boar and the shy sow—remind us of simpler times. Of rustic swings and first kisses. Of the early glimmerings of romance, when—

Wait a minute!

Porkin' in the park?

Just what is going on here?! Why must the meat-feeders continually do this—confuse sex and violence, all while dredging up the most untoward imagery and associations?

This image is a signpost at the intersection of the carnal and the, well… the carnal. Lust (park-based fornication) and butchery reimagined as a single, amoral force. This is the world the suicidefoodists bequeath to us: a world of power, subjugation, and spicy sauce. Sex is death, death is sex, and when we kill pigs, they have the time of their lives!

CJ Reid Pork Suppliers

Yes, the illustration is gruesome. Yes, the miniature pigs cavorting at the feet of the mammoth pig are unsettling. Yes, the flagrant shirtlessness of all three is almost too much to bear.

But it's the subtext we are most concerned with.

We are privy to a sacred moment: the very instant when a reprehensible culture is transmitted from one generation to the next. (We've had the "privilege" of witnessing this rite before.)

An adult pork-supplying pig (note the baggy physique and the maturity-connoting long trousers) instructs the piglets (see the short pants?) in the Way Things Are.

"Kids, we're pigs. Or, as I like to say, 'pork suppliers.' And our job is to provide the bacon makers—hallowed be their name—with all the pork they need. Keep eating, and one day your pork will end up in bacon products distributed all over Australia! Your mother and grandparents (rest their souls) would be so proud!"

This is how it happens.

Youth learns at the knee of Wisdom. Literally—each little one is clinging to a knee.

And the culture continues, perpetuated one lie at a time.

WPLR's Eat the Meat II

They will advertise their palatability. They will debase themselves by singing jingles. They will cajole you, coax you, dare you. We have seen all of these ploys and more. The suicidal animals of the world have a bristling arsenal of techniques for attaining their own grisly deaths and dismemberments.

And then there's Uncle Chicken here, the third personality of the raucous Chaz and AJ show.

This ambitious "food" animal has taken to the airwaves to broadcast his depraved philosophy of self-negation. More than that, he has embarked on a career to spread his message! (This is the second Eat the Meat wing eating competition, after all.)

We can only assume that buses in the greater Milford (Connecticut) area sport ads showing Uncle Chicken in a red-white-and-blue top hat, finger pointed right at the viewer, above the legend "I want you! To tear my wings off! And eat them! For fun!"

Do not be fooled by Uncle Chicken's tidy appearance—the blazer, the bow-tie, the cuff links. Look deeper. All the way to his rotten core.

Bad Bob's

Save us from hostile food!

Even more than the simpering animals we encounter now and then—the creatures over-eager to serve by being devoured—the aggressive pigs and steers are just… tiresome.

He's "bad." He's got a pirate/biker-style earring. He uses nonstandard spelling.

Oh, please. What transparent posturing.

For all his amoral, outsider machismo, he is—did you forget?—advertising the chance for barbecue enthusiasts to, you know, eat him. To latch their jaws on his ribs. To enact the brutal drama of life after casting him in the role of victim. Pawn. Object. Thing. Mere stuff. The doomed, defeated, utterly dominated, and possessed. The great faceless foundation upon which other lives are built.

It takes a tough pig to sell himself out so thoroughly.

(Thanks to Dr. Bea for the referral.)