Pork Jihad

A goldmine of offensiveness! Not content to rely on tired suicidefoodist rhetoric, the people of the Pork Jihad—no, that name isn't on the graphic, but trust us—complement the standard pigs-who-want-to-die with a rancid helping of sacrilegious hilarity.

But first, for the tried-and-true: This is one outfit that knows its suicide food! Having undergone thorough self-analysis, they can spell out their guiding principles. They've got a whole Bible-ish backstory, which includes this verse:

"The First Feast: 4. At this the herd of pigs sacrificed themselves, so that they may be packed into P-Ribby's colon as a bullet is packed into a musket."

The pigs want to die. They want to fulfill their destiny, to enact the will of God. So far, so good. We've seen this gag enough times to make us gag. But Pork Jihad gives us something new to chew on, something to offend a part of our brains usually ignored by the dedicated suicidefoodist:

"The Exodus: 4. He then fetched a pig as a sacrifice to Allah, and slowly roasted it for hours, making sure to preserve the natural flavors of the great and noble beast."

"Partake of the Divine Mana that is His slow-smoked goodness. Suckle His tender meat and become awash in His hearty sauces. Come, join His Mujahadeen. Take up the Jihad, declaring Holy War on inferior BBQ pork."

"And Allah said,
'Go out, and render helpless and
slaughter two of every animal.'
And it was good."

These quotes illustrate the full flavor of Pork Jihad's daring. For the entire enterprise is fraught not only with "humor" and the typical kill-'em-all-and-let-God-sort-'em-out tenderness, but also anti-Islamic sentiment. Pigs and Islam hardly go together like pork and beans, after all, and this pairing is obviously meant as a poke in the eye.

The Pork Jihad is stuffed full of contempt for pigs (hardly novel in the world of suicide food) and Muslims. Is that the "logical" extension of a pro-barbecue worldview? Does a love of barbecue lead necessarily to a hatred of America's purported enemies?

One wonders why they didn't take this all the way, though. Those cigar-smoking, all-American capitalist types hardly exemplify the stereotypical jihadist. They obviously represent the pig-headed contingency of Middle America.

Poor follow-through, that's what it is. They lost their nerve.

Lobster Drop

The plucky fighting men and woman lobsters of Crustacean Company have the courage and the drive to succeed. They're well-equipped (goggles and scarves). They're dripping with esprit de corps—corpse?—and all the grit of the professional soldier class.

Truthfully, the only thing they lack is a good cause. Oh, and an enemy. It's a pity, really, all that patriotic passion, all these paratroopers on what amounts to a suicide mission. They fight not for freedom, not to bring down the despot, the tyrant, the maniac, but instead to get themselves cooked in big pots of boiling water. (It's not exactly the kind of thing that lends itself to memorable ditties. "I'll be dead for Christmas. You can diiine on me." Just doesn't pack the emotional wallop we expect from our war songs.)

Operation: Die is a thankless mission. They're "flown in live daily," just more fodder for the cooking pots. Happy to die for, um... for the sake of death, the grunts keep coming, fresh from small towns all across Maine. Cheerfully, they meet death head-on, splashing into it with gusto.

Inspiring, yes, and also insane.

(Thanks to Dr. Scrappy for the photo.)

B.T.'s Smokehouse

And just what is going on here?

Could it really be as awful as it seems? (Could anything be as awful as this seems?)

Before, in the golden springtime of our innocence, we found this distasteful. Oh, to return to those childlike days, when something as tame as a cowboy pig slowly strangling a chicken into a near-death sex-coma was risqué! We mourn our lost naiveté. Life was so simple, the horrors of the world so remote.

But we have taken a pledge. Faced with an image like this one from B.T.'s Smokehouse of Brimfield, Massachusetts, we must do our duty and document our conclusions. Namely, that this is the most deviant act of foreplay we have ever seen. (This cross-species branding play is what the in-crowd refers to as "bronking.")

The mounting steer is our Barry White, full of charm and insistence. Look into his hooded eyes, and you can almost hear his basso profundo, and feel his need. The sow, then, is our coquette slipping into character. The explosive beads of perspiration belie her eroticism. See the smile on this gilt? (That's hog-farmer talk for young female pig.) She knows the score.

That all this is in the service of selling dead animal parts only compounds our nausea.

The Great American Barbecue Roadshow

We got ourselves a convoy! It's a parade of proud, soon-to-be-eaten citizens! All your favorites have come from far and wide to converge upon Westminster, Maryland:

The methane-spewing environmentally conscious cow pedaling in the lead; the "Look, Ma! No hands!" chicken endangering pedestrians left and right in her chartreuse convertible; the skateboarding lamb, representing the younger set (naturally); and, of course, the "man" of the hour, that glad-handing flag waver, the pig, wallowing in barbecue sauce up to his crotch.

In an admirable show of good ol' American gumption and civic pride, these creatures have hit the road. If you won't come to them—to help yourself to a leg here, a breast there, and then a trip over to the rib table—they'll come to you! (I'd like to see French livestock do that.)

It's like the ice cream truck for the blood-thirsty masses!

Soho Street Fair

It takes all kinds to make the world go 'round, and a summer street fair is the place to see them! Why, just take a gander at this exotic fellow!

Those thick eyebrows and lustrous lashes. And the wardrobe! Apparently, he has adopted some Western customs—witness the suit jacket and tie—while retaining elements of his native land. Hence, the shapeless, eggplant-colored bag/skirt (usually referred to, we believe, as a skirg), not to mention the opulent crown. Yes, this potentate must have traveled long to reach Soho, there to entice passerby with his wares. And what wares!

He was forced to sacrifice his own children. But it was worth it, because now he has product: a cheery festoon of sausages draped over his pig-wrists. Those 12 links make a gristly daisy chain with the seductive scent of the first-born.

If he can make one solid sale, he might have enough saved up to pay the euthanasia and butcher bills, so he can finally get himself killed, sold, and eaten. It's every immigrant's dream, one that America is honored to make happen.

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

Pig-N-Whistle

Easy there, pig. If you're overeager, they might just keep walking. Try a little psychology: Instead of tooting away on that ol' earsplitter—that's practically a sonic explosion you're creating, what with those pointy shockwaves and all—try the laid-back approach.

You can't tell from some of the logos we've featured here, but meat-eaters like the hunt, the "thrill" of the "chase." If you're out on the sidewalk hooting away like a carnival barker, they'll figure you're desperate. And how good could a desperate pig taste? "What's he got to be desperate about?" they'll wonder. And they'll have a point. Delicious animals don't have to make a scene.

Yes, you want to be eaten. Of course you do. That's what separates you from your savage cousins, the wildebeest and that grimy bunch. A slow, tortured death is the only thing that can give your crummy life meaning. We understand. We really do.

So stow the whistle, and let your savory aroma sing your praises. Before you know it, you'll have 'em eating your loins out of the palm of your hand.

Bad Boyz Barbecue

This poor piglet, victimized by an uncaring world! Why is this on Suicide Food? Some cruel "sportsmen" are using him for target practice! Suicidal? Heavens—he's in the crosshairs!

Look more closely. This graphic from Bad Boyz Barbecue catering of North central Tennessee and central Kentucky does not depict a hapless martyr.

The face. Look at the pig's face. This is not the face of a victim. This is the face of the death-obsessed. The pig's heart isn't soured by the pain of living in a merciless world. Nor does he brood on a desire for vengeance. No, he is not preparing to rush the gunman while he reloads. What you're seeing isn't anger—it's scorn. The pig is contemptuous of the marksman's poor aim.

He wanted only to end this charade called living, to offer himself up to the appetites of a ravening crowd. And now... His every effort to do himself in is nullified. First it was booze (too much too quick—he just vomited and suffered a crushing headache), then hanging (no fingers means no knot-tying), and finally the rain of bullets. But no! It is almost as if a capricious God has decided the bullets shall veer and This One Shall Live! But who is this God to keep the pig from his destiny?






Addendum (7/10/08): Look who's moonlighting for the Nashville Lions Club's Maifest! Now he looks peeved because the lion doesn't know how to work the grill.

Rasta Joe BBQ

Well, Fat Buddies, your reign didn't last long. No more are you the title holders in the Ugly Appetite-Killer category. Rasta Joe has taken your crown and... pawned it to buy weed?

Everything here appears designed to repel (or at least annoy):
• Cat's-eye glasses
• Awkward draping of right leg to hide pot-induced arousal
• Half-shirt
• Bo Derek bead braids
• Hog bristle stubble
• Lovingly rendered trotter anatomy
• The "Peel me a grape!" posture

However!

Wince-making though he is, rasta pig is the perfect suicidefood mascot. Rastas take things as they come. They see the oneness of the universe. Irie and all that. Of course they understand how their death and dismemberment is all a part of the plan. It's Jah's will that they be devoured and excreted by heedless patrons.

This pig's total (and serene) acceptance of his fate is merely one way suicidefood works. It's okay with the pig, so it should be okay with you. Fry 'em up, and choke 'em down.

One love.







Curious design note: This depiction of Rasta Joe (left) appears to be an earlier incarnation of the mascot (judging by the current homepage of the restaurant). So... They reworked this thing to remove the soft-focus look and wallow in a "warts and all" aesthetic? Interesting choice.

All-You-Can-Eat Bar-B-Que Fest

Cow: I’ve eaten so much I can’t think straight.

Pig: I am packed.

Cow: I won’t be able to walk until I sleep this off.

Chicken: Tell me about it.

Cow: Hey, what are the brown things with the, like, sticks in them?

Pig: That’s a bone, dummy.

Chicken: It’s a chicken leg, man! Have some respect!

Cow: Chicken leg? Dude, I’m a herbivore.

Pig: Not for the last two hours you weren’t.

Cow: What do you mean?

Chicken: You’ve been stuffing your face with meat since we got here.

Cow: Why didn’t you tell me?

Pig: The sign says “All-You-Can-Eat Bar-B-Q.” What did you think?

Cow: You know I can’t read.

Pig: Whatever.

Chicken: You know what the brown lumps are, right?

Cow: I don’t want to know.

Pig: You believe this guy?

Chicken: He doesn’t want to know.

Pig: Take a guess.

Cow: I’m not guessing!

Pig: It’s beef.

Cow: I don’t know what that is.

Chicken: Unbelievable.

Pig: Beef is cow, stupid.

Cow: What?!

Pig: What did you think we were doing here?

Cow: You said it was a party.

Chicken: It is a party.

Pig: A big meat party.

Cow: I think I’m gonna be sick.

Pig: Do it away from the grill.

Cow: So... What's the red stuff?

Pig: I don’t know and I don’t care. It is good.

Chicken: Pork.

Pig: Whatever. Hey, what do you say we go get ourselves killed and eaten?

Chicken: You read my mind.

Pig: Let’s do it.

Chicken: That's a plan.

Pig: Everybody wants to eat meat this sweet.

Chicken: Good times.

Pig: Good times.

Cow: I’m coming, I’m coming. Help me up, guys. Guys? Wait up. Come on! I hate you guys. I am not eating you!

Ribs Etc.

We have been in consultation over this for days. We have called in experts from the University. We've debated, talked it through, and slept on it. It's no use. This logo makes absolutely no sense at all. And thinking about it any longer could very well cause brain damage.

It's beyond the senselessness of typical suicide food imagery. It makes a whole new kind of nonsense.

"If you don't eat here, we'll both starve." A standard, comedic restaurateur epigram. Yes, yes, very amusing. But here? Bewildering. For the pig—the pig about to be consumed—is the speaker, yes?

(Is it getting warm in here?)

So... We must eat at Ribs Etc. because if we don't, the pig will starve. And we wouldn't want that. So we are required to participate in the pig's destruction so that he may live. When he's dead. Because we sanctioned his death. To save him.

(Is the room actually spinning?)

Let's just say the suicidefoodist brain trust has been working hard to devise a new motivation for suicidal animals and a new means of jamming our rational thoughts.

(We have to go lie down.)

Rock-n-Roll Fingers

If only this were the cover of the Fresh Chicken Fingers LP from pioneering rockabilly frontman Rock-n-Roll Fingers.

Of course, if it were, we'd have to acknowledge that the shades-sporting, leather-jacketed Fingers here is hardly a fighter against the establishment. No rock and roll rebel, he. With hits like, "Fish Gotta Swim, Birds Gotta Die," and "You Make Me Sizzle," he sings a love song to the status quo. No, he's got the rock and roll lifestyle all backward. Instead of flagging down groupies, he's leaping in bed with The Man.

Alas, we must put an end to our rock and roll fantasy. This image is just another damned dumb suicidefoodist logo. Somehow, seeing this Rooster Bitch strut across the stage in all his inauthentic glory is supposed to make us want to eat chicken fingers.

As the Rolling Stones might have/should have put it:

"I know! It's only a dilute sham of rock and roll!"

We don't like it, like it, no, we don't.

Ribs Within BBQ Team

Rarely have we seen a more accommodating "food" animal! (Yes, there was this herd of obliging pigs, but none of them had the winning personality of this bizarre fellow.)

Regardless, what we have here is the epitome of the Accomplice Animal. He frees us from the shackles that keep us in the slaughterhouse, there to stun and eviscerate pig after pig after pig. The line never stops! The swinging carcasses keep coming. We kill as fast as we can, but we can never catch up. How we long for another species to dispatch! A single chicken to gut!

Even removed from the abattoir as most of us are—removed from the killing, the blood covering the charnel house workers' hands like gloves—echoes of the slaughterhouse reverberate around our kitchens. All of which makes the Ribs Within pig a godsend. For he is a self-killing pig. He offers us a new myth. Behold! He opens a bloodless aperture and painlessly removes his own ribs for us! They're so fresh they're still on fire. (?)

It's possible he has even supplied ribs—the ribs of his family?—to spell out the name of the barbecue team he represents. Notice also that the 1st-place blue ribbon inside his abdomen has absorbed all of the blood we might have expected to find. See, this pig even cleans up after himself. Such thoughtful livestock!

Fat Buddies Ribs & BBQ

Even though these chums are fat and jolly—so fat and so very jolly—let us remember the context that surrounds suicidefoodist imagery like the fog of stink that rises from industrial hog manure lagoons. The pigs are happy, and it is their impending death that brings them happiness. That, and their admirable obesity. They are hat-wearing meat piles with legs. But they know that just makes them more prized menu selections. This is what makes their life—oh, pathos!—worth living.

We turn now to a brief examination of the tagline. "So good it'll make you squeal!" A classic case of Ironic Aggressor Sublimation. The sounds of your contentment will mirror the panicked squeals of the beings your meal used to be. How can anybody function in such an intellectually chaotic atmosphere?

All told—the unhappy pairing of the words and graphics: repugnant. If there has ever been a less seductive barbecue logo, one less likely to bring 'em through the doors and put 'em in the seats, we haven't seen it. And we're not sure we would want to. But we must. Our hard slog to the bottom, to the worst of the worst, is not yet concluded. We have important work yet to do.

Festival of Cruelty 2

Our 100th post! And what better way to commemorate such an august milestone than with another look into the pit of depravity that exists on the outskirts of Meat-Eater Land? (Or is it located in its very heart?) You will remember our first Festival of Cruelty.

We leave behind the cognitive dissonance of suicide food—just for a moment—and enter an even bleaker, blacker-hearted place. These animals are not doing to themselves; they are done to. Steel yourself, bring along a loved one for strength (and a reminder that goodness still dwells in the world, somewhere), and let's proceed.

Big Country Weekend Calf Fry: Come on down to Vinita, Oklahoma, self-proclaimed calf-fry capital of the world! What do you mean you don't want to? How can you resist the look of pure, bowel-loosening fear on that cute calf's face? They'll make that baby animal beg for his life! And then they'll tear him apart with their bare hands and eat him! It's wholesome family fun.



Choke-n-Poke Meat Smokers: The natural animosity we feel for this cigar-chomping pig is mitigated only a little by the knowledge that he will get his soon enough. (What is it with meat-eaters and their chicken-choking symbology? Yes, you have seen it before. Here, for instance. And here.) Has there ever been a more obnoxious spokesman for the animal-eating movement? He strangles, he brands, all while shooting us the smuggest look you ever saw. Even the vegans relish the thought of his painful demise.





Porky's Pickle: Oh, what a pickle Porky has gotten himself into! Yep, this clumsy pig has fallen into the cauldron and he has no one to blame but himself. Squeal all you want, piggy—they're not letting you out. For its mean-spirited blame-the-victim aesthetic—if not for its draftsmanship—this logo is a real "winner."





Mad Cows BBQ: Mad cows? More like heartless and satanic cows. This one is just plain evil. The Dark Cud-chewing One has plucked an innocent piglet from the sty and prepares to take him to his murderous hell. And we're meant to identify not with the sinless babe, but instead with... the cow?







Pig Tales Newsletter: The masthead of the official organ of the North Carolina Barbecue Society is graced with an altogether offensive logo. From the terrified pig to the single-minded, cleaver-waving Chief Kill-um-All, this one is stomach churning.




Blue Springs Blaze Off: Simplicity itself. A pig, exhausted by fear and pain, leaps above the flames, knowing that his heart will soon give out. Look at him. He is jumping up and down in the fire, his trotters, his legs, his hindquarters all charred. Is the entire Blue Springs Blaze Off (Blue Springs, MO) this vicious? According to their website, "[t]he Blue Springs Barbeque Blaze Off received a special honor in 1989 when Governor John Ashcroft proclaimed the contest a Missouri State Championship." No comment.