Ye Olde Cherry Tree

The practitioners of suicidefoodism are cunning fabulists, conjuring fantastical worlds of illogic as a matter of course. Their every "truth" is a falsehood. Deception is their bones and viscera bread and butter. The very basis of their movement is self-contradictory, absurd on its face. So this image should hardly surprise us. Even so, it is exciting in its ridiculosity.

A monstrous pig, 20 feet at the shoulder, looms over the Ye Olde Cherry Tree. He could crush it with one blow. He could end the traditional hog roast there in the blink of an angry eye. Crash! This is for your tradition! Smash! This is for your love of dead pigs!

But no. He doesn't. In the world of suicide food, even a gargantuan pig is happy with his lot, satisfied that he lives only to die.

The cryptic glyph above Pigoliath's head might indicate that he has been enjoying his own beer festival out back. Is that what transformed a rampaging abomination into a willing victim?

The Story of a Steak

Gather 'round, idiot children! I'm about to tell you the dumbest story you ever heard. This is going to make Jack and the Beanstalk look like Anna Karenina. Grab your forks and let's read this thing.

"Chapter 1. This calf was born on a Texas ranch. Several acres of grazing land are required to support each cow and calf."

Okay, this part's not all that stupid. Just wait.

"Chapter 2. As a yearling, the calf was sold to an Iowa farmer for 'finishing.' Proper feeding of corn and protein supplements adds many extra pounds and a lot of extra eating quality to our beef."

You see what they did there? First it was "calf." Then "yearling." But then they slipped and called him "beef." And look at that dumb cow grinning! What's he got to be happy about? They're finishing him! Keep growing, dummy.

"Chapter 3. After several months in the feed lot, our calf, now a full-grown steer, was sent by rail or truck to the stockyards and assigned to a marketing firm for sale."

Assigned to a marketing firm? Oh, brother! He's practically a member of the family! Keep quiet, kids, or maybe we'll assign you to a marketing firm.

"Chapter 4. Buyers for several local and out-of-town meat packing companies put in bids based on the going consumer price of beef. This steer was one of a carload bought by an Ohio meat packing company."

Ol' Stupid is still grinning like a dope! Doesn't take much, huh? Fella, they looked you over and paid the going rate. Nothing they wouldn't do for any consumer goods.

"Chapter 5. At the packing plant, the 'beef crew' turned beef on the hoof into meat for the stores. Beef was inspected, chilled and graded, prepared for shipment."

Turned beef into meat! That beef crew is a real bunch of wizards! You don't need a magic wand for that trick. Just takes a big knife and a strong stomach. I can't tell—is the cow still smiling? (And now they're just calling him Beef, like that's the dummy's name.)

"Chapter 6. Under refrigeration, the quarters of beef were shipped to New York's wholesale meat district — 1500 miles from Texas, where the calf was born."

It's an all-expenses-paid trip! See America from the back of a refrigerated truck.

"Chapter 7. Owner of a Brooklyn meat market, after comparing prices and quality, selected a quarter of our steer."

The owner loves the steer. Just not in that way. The other way.

"Chapter 8. In the store, a quarter of beef was turned into steaks, roasts, stew and hamburger; was displayed for customer's selection competing with other meats."

I think they mean the dead cow was competing, not the customer. But I wouldn't put that past them.

"Chapter 9. Yesterday, a housewife looked over everything in the counter, compared values, decided on steak, porterhouse or chopped, depending on what she wanted to spend."

The End!

Hey, look! The butcher's got the cow's smile now! That's the circle of life, kids. Now help me with the lighter fluid and let's get supper started.

(Thanks to Dr. Anencephalic for the referral.)

Krekenavos Agrofirma

Rejoice, Lithuania, rejoice! For your pigs (or, as we like to think of them, living pork containers) are enraptured with you! At the thought of being murdered, carved, and fried, ground, or sausaged for you, they prance! They leap! They delight in life's unasked-for gifts!

Let other nations—backward lands—exploit gloomy pigs! Lithuania will champion the happy pig, the grateful pig, the joyous pig! Lithuania will give him a platform from which to propound his philosophy: Today is a good day to die!



"… kai norisi mésos…" the legend tells us. "… when you want some meat…"

This kiosk manages an impressive two-fer: not content with disparaging pigs as merely pre-food, it also equates women with meat! See how the red dress morphs into the salad-and-sausage? And how about that double entendre! When you want some meat, indeed! It's as though, once the objectification starts, it takes on a life of its own.


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

Divine Bovine Gourmet Beef Jerky

The symbolism is just… off.

The cow has obviously dressed for her portrait. Unless she typically wears formal dress, this is no candid shot. (We will ignore the question of why she's in bull drag.)

But since when do a tuxedo jacket and bow tie stand for divinity? Sack cloth, vestments, a humble monastic robe. Sure, these would ably convey the necessary piety. Even a leisure suit might connote a certain evangelical brand of religiosity. What we see here is not so much humility, but opportunism. Nor does the Midwestern brand of sophisticated style communicate gourmet. We are left to wonder what's going on.

What we know: a cow who is neither divine nor gourmet is going to great lengths to convince you that she is both, and that, therefore, she deserves to be eaten, that the jerky made from her flesh is, in fact, "terrific." We're not even convinced that she is a she!

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

River City Roundup Barbeque Challenge

Can you spot the offending element in this image? The especially offending element in the image, that is. (The entire thing is an offense against decency, but only a conventional one.)

No, we mean the detail that lifts this picture out of the beginner class and into the intermediate.

It's not the chaps, unpleasant as they are. And it's not the spurs. Nor the cow's beef-eating grin, nor the pig's trouble-maker smirk.

We jest. Of course you know what it is. The branding iron. Freed from his Omaha, Nebraska, sty, if only on a River City Roundup Barbeque Challenge furlough, the pig is overtaken by rage. A vicious anti-animal fugue, intoxicating for the opportunity it offers to be on the other side of the branding iron, the prod, and the whip.

How casual they all are, leaning against a fencepost, fondling that metal shaft, perching atop a hat. (Chickens, as you know by now, are often afterthoughts in the suicidefoodist imagination.) One could hardly tell that they are gripped by thoughts of vengeance, of violence, of lashing out just one time before subjecting themselves, at last, to the cruel ministrations of their destinies.

Marsh & Baxter's

We know what you're thinking: It's not very sporting to criticize such a charming token from a bygone era of good taste and wit.

But we must. This advertisement is transcendent in its tastelessness!

It's not merely the over-reaching, making-the-figurative-literal pun—"drawing his own conclusion." (Har har!) No, it's that same nihilistic cynicism that equates living creatures with the food they are to be turned into. It is as though the people of Marsh & Baxter, and all people who would consume their products, are unable to make a distinction between a pig and the substance out of which it is made.

Only psychopaths are afflicted with a similar handicap when it comes to humans. We fear and shun those who see humans as mere objects, as walking piles of flesh. Yet when it comes to pigs, this sentiment is utterly conventional among the ranks of suicidefoodsists.

So here, a shyly smiling hog allows himself to be hitched to a wagon bearing the processed remains of his kin. We are meant to believe that even he finds the joke humorous.

Unlike us, he is a good sport.

(Thanks to Dr. Lemur-Cat et al. for the referral.)






Addendum: For another example of hilarity derived from interpreting figurative language literally, see this old post.

Suicidefood Web Searches: a digression

For the last several months, we have taken note of the search terms people have employed to wind up at our site. Based on what they were intending to find, the searches of these accidental visitors can be placed into three categories:

1. Very Well, Then.
2. Wha?! and
3. We Don't Want To Know!

We begin with the least objectionable:

Very Well, Then.

harold's chicken food poisoning

how to butcher a cow

is suicide that bad

my leaf lard tastes too meaty

Burgerkind

what are Zaxby's chicken fingers?

Porky Pig's worst role

You'll make me suicidal, suicidal

cow song I am cow hear me moo

sporty chops

+"Paul Prudhomme" +"dead animal" +poor

foods God okay eat

Multi-Purpose Floor Display food

nice lovely girl

dead deer pics 2007

Wha?!

suicide cutting wrists

microwave suicide

i cow white sexy female

suicide knife to the head

suicide in animals

suicide valley

suicide master

muscle pig in overalls

22 birdshot in food

nooses around kids

turducken pig

beer butt ostrich

rasta cat

hotdog of men

suicide with pricking

rabbit suicide

garbage eaters cult

suicide with a knife

suicide tickles

octopus livestock

We Don't Want To Know!

sex com animales

sexy pig cartoon

sexy food animals

how to make suicide look like an accident

sexy rack

dancing with nooses

farm animals and sexy women.com

toe food choclate (sic)

Bear in mind that this represents only the tiniest fraction of what we've seen. Many search requests were for specific restaurants that we have featured. These were too dull to bother with. But the rest paint a grim picture of the state of modern society. On the positive side, we like to think that finding us—instead of whatever depraved thing was hoped for—made things just a little brighter for someone. If only for a few moments or page views, whichever came first.

Happy Vealantine's Day!

Egregious.

A veal calf, symbol of the deprivation endured by innocent "food" animals, made the spokesman for fawning, selfless love? Bah! Ebenezer Scrooge would have picked a new holiday to spurn had he seen this card.

Need it be said that the object of our calf's affection is not a dainty she-calf, or an animal rights activist? Nor even an animal welfare activist? Nor anyone remotely concerned with his well-being? But instead, of all things, a farm boy, agent of the system established to destroy generations of "veal" calves?

O, calumny! O, outrage!

Never before have we seen innocence itself so trampled, much as the calf symbolically tramples his own heart. (Do these offenses against purity come close?) Childhood is here targeted. And reason. And wisdom. And every other good and gracious quality we hope to find in the hearts of mankind.

The intended message: The calf forgives you and wants only the requital of his love. Yes, you read that right. The calf forgives you.

We like to imagine this on the back of the card:

Muscles are red,
Lung tissue is blue.
Eat me up now
And keep me with you.

Please suggest your own (in)appropriate rhymes in our comments section.

(Thanks to Dr. Mac for the referral. Image source.)

The Ecstasy of Anticipation

The pig in blissful anticipation of the blessed First Bite is suicidefoodism's version of the pietà.

Instead of Mary mourning the babe in her lap, we have pigs (each one a stand-in for the pig of pigs, Babe) savoring the food soon to be on their plates (or, as in the case of Vindiola's, the food that has already been served). And, we must add, savoring the food they are soon to be. And so, in the skilled hands of a suicidefoodist master, this anti-pietà is a celebration, not a vigil of despair.

The pigs can't wait! Tongues out, flared nostrils sucking in the divine aroma of cooked pigs, perhaps raising a prayer of thanks to the cook, our pigs might appear to be not, suicidal, but merely… human.

But no.

It is our contention that they are not simply eating a burnt offering. They are transforming themselves into superofferings! Just as the predator, through eating its prey, concentrates environmental pollutants in its fatty tissues, so our pig-eating pigs concentrate the sanctity of the sacrifice!

(Clockwise from top left: Mary-Jean's Southern Homestyle Bar-B-Que Sauce, John's Roast Pork, Vindiola's Smoke-A-Licious BBQ, Sau Guad [image source, referred by Dr. Elaine].)

Smoke Break BBQ

Have you ever laid eyes on a pig so "relaxed"? A pig so at ease with the horrifying inevitability that awaits him?

We can't know for certain what is in his "cigar," but we can guess. Perhaps something to take the edge off? Something to blur the thoughts—the very psychological categories and distinctions that cause anxiety and fear? (Distinctions like prey/predator and alive/dead.)

Whether his substance use (abuse?) is the cause or the consequence of his desire to die, we also can't know for certain. Such mystery! Fitting that, attendant to matters of life and death, we find, always, mystery.

(Image source.)










Addendum: With an image as compelling as this one, is it any wonder that it has been adapted to a wide range of messages, from the implicit to the explicit? From "I am here supporting your decision to eat dead pigs" to "Please announce your preference for eating dead pigs." Such a diversity of thought and opinion! Suicidefoodism is, indeed, a big tent.

(Source of "oink" image.)

Irn-Bru

I, Cow, being of sound mind and body… Or, you know. Close enough. Lemme start again.

I, Cow, do hereby declare that, um…

I'm sorry. I'm having trouble concentrating. I'm just excited, you know? Today is the big day! I'm finally going to make something of myself: food!

Okay, okay, this is serious. This is serious stuff. Okay.

I, Cow, do hereby declare that when I am at last freed from the burden of being, you know, alive, I have certain demands. For after, you know?

Am I making any sense? Do you need to edit that part out?

Okay, so here are the demands.

Demand #1: I would like the people who slaughter me to make insensitive jokes and hold my head up like a puppet and make it talk. With funny voices, you know?

Demand #2: Once I'm dead and drained, I would like people to say "Moo!" to me, as though they're talking to me. And then laugh.

Demand #3: This one's the most important. I would like whoever eats me in burger form to drink a particular brand of soft drink shortly afterward.

That's all. That's all I got. This makes sense, right? I mean, you must meet a lot of weirdos in your job, right? But this is perfectly reasonable, right?

(Thanks to Dr. Lise for the referral.)

Sir Loin and the Omaha Beef

What happens when a suicidal animal with a theatrical streak finds himself jobless and locked out of the storied Nebraska stockyards? He sews himself a costume and puts on a show!

Calling himself Sir Loin (groan), our star steer fires up the crowds at home games of the Omaha Beef (groan) indoor football franchise.

With his showmanship, he manages to turn the sport into one big party! It's a celebration of himself as a succulent, edible god!

The form-fitting outfit! The almost simian leer! Sir Loin (groan) is a role model for depraved "food" animals everywhere. Nothing can get in his way. Not his shockingly low self-esteem, not his status as a third-class citizen, nothing.

(Could the composition of this shot possibly be coincidental? The sculpted physique—more than a thousand beefy pounds of American meat on the hoof—marching before the Burger King sun!)

As an aside, this is the most extreme example of Ironic Aggressor Sublimation we have ever seen. (Please! No more!) Compare "Omaha Beef" with a superficially similar professional sports outfit, the Chicago Bulls. Yes, in both, a bull or steer is the mascot, but while the Beef emphasize their victim status (indeed, their very food-ness), the Bulls' name stands for power and virility.

Even within the Beef's league—and its Billings Outlaws, its River City Rage, and its Wichita Wild—the Beef stand alone as passive patsies.







And it's not just the team and their shameless Sir Loin (groan). No, it's the Omaha Prime (groan) dancers, the Rump Roasters (groan) and Meatheads (groan) fan groups, the Meat Wagon (groan) bus trips, and the Meat Wrapper (groan) newsletter. The entire enterprise is a fantasy of suicidefoodism!

(Image source.)