Pork Rinds, a retrospective

It's the quaintest obscurantism in the suicidefoodist canon: pork rinds. As though pigs are, what? Melons? Do melons smile like that? Dream or hope like that? Ha!

This rogues' gallery of fiercely oblivious spokespigs represents a soaring low-point in the annals of meaninglessness. Somehow—and we agree that this lacks a consistent logic—the sight of pigs extolling the virtues of their own fried skin is worse than pigs talking up their own cooked meat. It's more desperate. More depraved.

The very idea of pork rinds is so revolting, it's a wonder we haven't discussed them more often. In fact, the last time was more than eight months ago. So.

Welp! No more stalling.




























































The entire breadth of pigkind has turned out to support the proposition that their skin makes a convenient and appetizing snack. The top-hatted captain of industry, the dancing fool, the simple country soul, even the cowboy atop his docile flying buffalo—all pigs, from the lowliest to the loftiest, give the nod to pork rinds!







Addendum: If you can bear it, revisit our discussion of the most horrendously named product in the field of pork skin offerings. Yes, even worse than Microwave Pork Puffies (see above), but just by a hair.

Mighty Swiners

Up in the sky! Look! It's a shill! It's a plant! It's the Mighty Swiners!

Bearing their magic talismans—the tongs, the barbecue brush, the checkered flag—the caped co-conspirators streak through the skies. Their mission: to, um, get eaten. It's not actually very superheroic when viewed in the cold, clear light of day.

Remember, these are merely the latest examples of the suicidefoodist version of the superhero archetype (last seen here). As such, they strive to protect neither the populace of the cities they call home, nor even themselves. They are dedicated not to justice, or even justice's disfigured cousin revenge, but instead to their own death and dismemberment. Don't expect any comic book or big-budget theatrical spin-offs.

"Pig Out" Catering

Suicide food? What's so suicidal about this pinkest of pigs suspended above the greedy flames?

Is this what you're wondering?

It is grisly, to be sure.

Horrific, we agree.

But suicidal? Isn't this but the routine slow-roasting inflicted on untold pig carcasses every day across this miraculous old world of ours?

Sometimes a simple change can throw the matter into stark relief. Let's look at a detail of the image inverted.

Now do you see? The smile?

Though upside down, the fires tickling his ear, the pig smiles! Burning alive, he has found the tranquility he yearned for! At long last, his life, being so short now, so near the end, has meaning. He has even dressed for the occasion. Sort of. If you can call wearing-nothing-but-a-bow-tie "dressing up."

The ward of a quality Australian outfit, he knows he will be delivered into his afterlife with all the enthusiasm, if not the outright brutality, he deserves.

We would also like to point out the sly homage to the checkered flag motif, always appropriate during such times.

Westport World-Class Crab Races

Here's how this most sporting event works: officials seed the marina with crabs (we love the word seed here, as though they went and planted crustaceans!), people try to catch them, and then they enjoy the crabs. Their enjoyment takes the form of "rac[ing] crabs on the track" and "stack[ing] 'em on a plate."

And take a look at the representative contestant. The checkered flag, long a symbol of suicidal animals, is hoisted high, like a banner. (We trust we need not explain the symbolism here.) We will remark that the crab is remarkably chipper about what is about to happen to him.

That "I'm a winner!" look on his face is precious. Hey, crab, you're all "winners." In other words, you're all losers.

The conclusion is inescapable: Forgive us, but the Westport World-Class Crab Races are the Special Olympics of crabs.

Racin' and Tastin'

This poor, mentally disadvantaged pig.

On one level, he knows everyone's there to watch the shiny cars go 'round and 'round, and to see and admire him. He knows this is a special day for him, and he has come along willingly. Yes, on one level, he comprehends.

On another level, however, he is the deceived innocent. Could he know of his guardians' intentions? Of their desire to suck the flesh from his bones? Could he know that he is that which will be tasted?

Look at his eyes. There is eagerness in his eyes. There is love and, most heart-wrenching of all, there is trust. "Those cars're fast, all right, just like you said they'd be! Say, what are you doin' with them knives?"

Racing and tasting have never been marked by such shame.

And may we remark again on the wry aptness of checkered flags as suicidefoodist iconography? They stand for spectacle, indeed, but also for the triumph of mankind over whatever noble impulses might constrain his behavior. More to the point, they symbolize this animal's end. He has reached the finish line. His race done, he may now live out his remaining minutes in the glow of his many storied accomplishments.






Addendum (4/10/08): Hey, how about this Big Subpoenas BBQ team mascot!












Addendum 2 (11/26/08): And here is again, on a bottle of Ahrun's Famous Carolina Mustard Barbeque Sauce!












Addendum 3 (12/11/08): And again! Posing on a naughty T-shirt!









Addendum 4 (2/04/09): What's funny about this one… Oh, it's a real knee-slapper! See, what's funny about this one is the poor pig has discovered that his sweetheart is actually a slut selling kisses. Or, no, giving them away. And—this is the kicker—she's already dead! She's got the apple in her mouth and everything!










Addendum 5 (4/17/09): Now he's working for John Hardy's Bar-B-Q, along with a nonplussed cow and chicken.

Bar-B-Q Heaven, Inc.

Like much heaven-centric suicide food imagery, this illustration merely pushes suicidefoodism's agenda to its "logical" conclusion.

Before we go further, we must insist that you ignore the disarmingly poor draftsmanship. Please ignore especially the right leg twisted and turned up unnaturally at the knee, and the crude rendering of the ribs. These sins are undeniable, but they distract us from our real purpose: the unflinching exegesis of Bar-B-Q Heaven, Inc.'s "text."

What do we know of the pig? He is dead.

Why is he dead? Man killed him.

Why did man kill him? To make him happy.

Why does being dead make him happy? Because he is finally freed from the moral and biological injunctions that had prevented him from eating pigs.

Why does he want to eat pigs? Man has told him that pigs are good to eat. He identifies so closely with man that he wishes to mimic man's habits. Notice that his spirit inhabits man's heaven. Notice also that he doesn't want to eat all pigs. He wants merely to eat of his own flesh.

If they're his ribs, where is the gaping wound in his body? He has been healed and made whole again by heaven's blessed hand.

But what about the checkered flag? Simple. The pig's race (his earthly life, his carnal sentence) is done. He has reached the goal of all obedient "food" animals: dear, dear death. He lives lived to serve.

Such is the bizarre worldview announced and bolstered and bolstered again by the Church of Suicidefoodism. It's for the animals! That's why we torment them so! For their own good. They want this! Their very souls cry out for it! This—and suffering, of course—is how they experience their utter fulfillment.

Barbecue on the River

Although it is, technically, possible that the chicken and pig believe the good folks of Paducah, Kentucky, have gathered to honor them, I believe they know this is meant to be the other kind of “roast.” And so, here they come, holding "hands," playing to the balconies, strutting onstage to greet an adoring (and salivating) public. The actors know their lines well: “We, who are about to die, salute you!”

Organizers of the Barbecue on the River Tournament and Pig-Out promise “family entertainment” (including “balloon buffoonery” and marionettes) and 25 tons of grilled chickens and pigs. This is clearly the big time. Which explains why the chicken (adorned with lipstick and an earring, if not lips and earlobes) looks for more than her usual ancillary role. Yes, she is making the most of her one big shot. All tarted up, flashing those baby blues, she is ready to face the critics' knives and forks.

The checkered flag motif of their Bandannas of the Damned could hardly be more apt. Chicken? Pig? You have reached the finish line. Take a bow. Your public's waiting for you backstage.