Festival of Cruelty 17

Every few months, we leave the safety of suicidefoodism's comfy lies—"the animals want us to do to them what we want to do to them" chief among them—and descend into the dungeons of the truth. Finding there nothing soft, nothing easy, we hold out as long as we can before climbing into the light of lies above. (Our last visit into the darkness.)

Burnside BBQ: Burn the side, burn the front, burn the back. Burn it all. In for a penny, in for a pound. The worst part: The pig's got a napkin tied under his chin. When they said they'd be pleased to have him for dinner, he thought they meant something else.








El Pampero: Who says "food" animals are mistreated, forced to live without adequate space, mental stimulation, or medical attention? Jab! Take that! Jab! And that!

We know that El Pampero means "the one from the pampas," the great, grassy plains of Argentina. But we can't help wanting to translate it as "The Pamperer." That's how we imagine the hypo-wielding pig describing himself, with supervillainish sarcasm.



Law Dawg BBQ: More abuse of canine power. It's an unlikely trope: the uniformed dog or wolf—a law enforcement officer or a pilot or a chef—rousting the local pig populace. In this case, a good ol' boy sheriff ushers a pig into the paddy wagon for a bit of extrajudicial barbecuing.







SS BBQ Team: Although the aproned executioner adheres to a system designed to remove the stink of patronage and caprice, still the deck is, shall we say, stacked. It's a sure thing: someone's going to die. The concession the chef makes is a small one. After all, he doesn't really much care who's next. He knows he'll get around to killing and grilling each of them in turn.








Stu Pit: So much for the respect the barbecuing community professes for the animals their food used to be.

See you next time! (There's going to be a next time?!)

Festival of Cruelty 16

It's time. Every 50 posts, we leave the childlike world of illusion and visit the land of brutal truth. We turn our backs on the calming lie of complicit animals who are accessories to their own murders and face squarely an unending anti-animal sentiment. (Our most most recent visit was, as always, sobering.)

Whiskered Dog BBQ: For the crime of being born animals, the chicken and pig have been imprisoned, saddled with balls-and-chains, and then allowed to escape. And all of this, the whole sordid circus—the corrupt courts, the vicious penal system—exists only so that they can be chased down by a dog police officer on a motorcycle and a cleaver-happy little girl. Are we alone in wondering (again, again, and again!) why the animals have to be brutalized, tormented, and ridiculed prior to being slaughtered and butchered? Justice deferred is justice denied! Or, you know, injustice deferred is still injustice.

(Would you believe that two previous festivals of cruelty—this one and this one—also feature images of canine predators on motorized vehicles hunting down pigs and chickens? They might, in fact, have been created by the same artist.)


Jake Culpeeper's Cattle Company: Is Jake Culpeeper hiding his eyes, unable to confront his own cruelty?

No, we believe he is merely wiping away a single tear of mirth.

"Jump, cow! Lookit 'er go!"





Piping Hot: She must not only die. She must die a lingering death. She must die from a broken spirit, as much as from the severe burns, asphyxiation, or whatever trauma actually kills her in their enormous death chamber. The fans they have supplied are clearly intended as mocking imitations of mercy. Dying of thirst? Take this thimble topped to the brim with warm seawater. Dying of exposure to the freezing elements? Have a watchband. Starving to death? Here's a photo of a single kernel of corn. Likewise, the cow slowly dying within a makeshift torture apparatus.



Louie's Chicken Shack: Down at Louie's, they got a lumberjack/Quebecois fur trader who delights in hacking off the chickens' heads out back. They don't even have to pay him. He just shows up, sharpens the axe, and gets to it. When he's ankle-deep in heads, he wipes down the blade and goes home. It's a sweet deal for everyone.







Freestate Smokers: Free state, huh? They sure do have a sense of humor out in Maryland. It's not so free for the "food" animals. Sure, they're free to burst out of the smokers. They're free to be wracked with fear and anxiety. But mostly they're free to shut up and die.

Thee Pitt's "Again"

True, when it comes to horrific menus, nothing can compete with Packard's. (We're sure to be proven wrong, but we'd like to postpone it as long as possible.) Still and all, Thee Pitt's "Again" does offer a sturdy example of madness by way of menu.

For instance, a Southwest lawman pig-type person (?) lounges in a hammock above the fire that will cook him. Oh, but it's nothing to get worked up about. Just a little burning and death! A cool glass of lemonade will see him to his eternal rest in comfort.

His stocking feet dangling over the flames, the lawman smiles knowing that his passing will afford you a pleasant dining experience.


Speaking of dying happily, this rattlesnake approaches his impending destruction with giddy good humor. He embraces the sign announcing his availability as a side dish with an affection bordering on the terrifying.

Snakes are such rare participants in this bloody ritual—we've seen only one other in all this time!—we confess we still haven't figured out what makes them behave the way they do.

Festival of Cruelty 14

The time has come again, regrettably, to leave behind the disingenuous sham that is suicide food, and stumble into a land of foulest honesty. We come here every 50 posts, for reasons we have long since forgotten, and stare goggle-eyed at the worst of the worst. For here we see beyond and beneath suicidefoodism's Big Lie. No one in this quarter bothers trying to make you believe the animals are complicit. Here they are not actors, but only objects.

(Visit our most recent foray when you're done.)

Chain Gang BBQ: For those of you already squeamish about the thought of exploiting prison labor, comes this piece of bad business. The pigs (surely sentenced to life) are herded into a work detail under the blistering sun. Behind them, they drag a new ball and chain: a hot, heavy, smelly barbecue.

No, we're not sure why the grinning warden is eating a bird's leg and not a rack of ribs.



Bringin' The Heat BBQ Team: After painting it with the blood of its offspring (we're assuming), an imp made of fire threatens to burn a pig alive. He's getting ready to touch the flame to the pig's tail, like setting a lit match to tinder, but the pig can hardly muster the will to care.





Miller's Bar-B-Que: Out there in southeastern Pennsylvania, they do things a little differently. When the nights lengthen and the stars dazzle, Manheimers like to plug in the ol' electric gun and chase themselves a chicken or two. It's a simple pastime that harkens back to a simple time. A time when a businessman could terrorize a bird without drawing dirty looks and jeers.



Angry Tom's BBQ: So is this what it looks like when Tom isn't angry? (When he follows his own advice, about forgoing wrath for barbecue.) Because—and we're not professionals—he looks a teensy bit furious. Maybe it's the way he's straddling his homing airplane, fork all agleam with malice, putting his foes to flight. We admit not following the scenario very well. Is the plane on the ground? (Was Tom grounded for rage-related reasons?) Are the cow, pig, and chicken running in the clouds?

See this post for a similar treatment of the theme—the fork-brandishing wolf chasing down his prey aboard a mechanical mount. Awfully specific, that theme.



Peg Leg Porkers: Getting drunk and risking your life for a good cause (?) by trying to stay one step ahead of rampaging bulls gets old. To inject a much-needed thrill into the spectacle, we recommend forcing a terrified pig—one with an inexplicable wooden leg—to take your place.

(Keeping score? This is the fifth instance of peg-legged pigs we've featured.)

Cops as Pigs, a retrospective

This is only the latest example of the Submissive Dominant paradigm. Surely the class recalls the standard definition? Submissive Dominants are animals who have the power to send their oppressors running, but who instead submit. We've seen them many, many times, from unstoppable cyborgs to livestock aglow with righteous fury. We've even seen frontier lawmen who fit the profile.

It's a model beloved by suicidefoodists who, presumably, see in it a justification for their entire perverse creed: even animals with the power and authority to object do not! Proof that they enjoy this! So policefood was practically inevitable, so crucial is it to the underpinnings of suicidefoodism's worldview.

And may we just say? If the vegans—those notorious disturbers of the peace—were to make this comparison, if they conflated officers of the law with pigs, they'd be ridden out of town on a rail greased with lard. But when the meat enthusiasts do it, it's just good-natured joshing.







Addendum: See the first example we documented of this phenomenon, at the end of this post.

Addendum 2 (12/05/10): Now we see the lighter side of law enforcement, as Officer Pork closes out the annual Policemen's Ball with a rousing number, prancing on the grill, waving his hat in the air, tongs at the ready.

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!

Almost Relevant Breaking News: Chick-Fil-A Mascot Attacked

Quasi-suicidefoodist Cow Mascot Tackled by Mystery Assailant

Fredericksburg, VA. The Chick-Fil-A fast-food restaurant chain's cow mascot, a longtime supporter of the consumption of chickens, was knocked to the ground by an unknown shover. While not a true adherent of the suicidefoodist movement, the cow nevertheless worked closely with the purveyors of "food" animals. Police have no suspect or motive.

Note: This actually happened.

Watch the video report.

Officer Big Mac Valentine

Another food-based officer of the peace who is not up to the rigors of his occupation.

Lovestruck, he walks the beat. His mind is a million miles away. He should be keeping an eye out for punks boosting car radios and drug buys going down, but he's thinking about… love.

This hapless public servant is already servant to his heart. Which he is eating. For his valentine's benefit. (Have we been living under an affection-starved rock? Is "eating your heart out" an expression of love as well as envy now?)

Anyway, he's an ambulatory hamburger. Whatever heart he has is from the ground remains of a hundred different cows. We suppose this is really just testament to the desire, the sheer bull-headed drive, that some undead food has. Once killed, they strive to discover ever more absurd ways to sacrifice themselves.







Bonus! They're not suicide food, but these meat-related valentines are no less inappropriate:

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?

Texas Rib Rangers

A worrisome twist on the Submissive Dominant archetype. You remember that one, don't you, class? The depiction of powerful figures as willing victims? (This monstrous creature comes to mind.)

In the case of the Texas Rib Rangers, our unlikely victim is a hyper-masculine law enforcement official. Muscles rippling, nostrils blasting out breath like scalding steam, the Texas Ranger is nobody's patsy. This is a steer who knows how to take care of himself.

But there he is, on the label of a barbecue sauce that boasts of its suitability as an accompaniment to beef! The Ranger could wrestle a twister bare-handed, so why has he thrown in with the meat lubricators? Because he is suffering from unnamed mental issues. They have driven him mad with the urge to die, to be covered in sauce, and eaten.

When we lose confidence in law enforcement, what can we depend on? Are we already doomed?

(Thanks to Dr. Bea for the referral.)

20th Annual Cedar Rapids BBQ Roundup

And now we return to the nauseating phantasmagoria that is the modern barbecue festival!

Our last festival sight-seeing tour took us to Memphis. This time around, it's Cedar Rapids, jewel of East Central Iowa.

From what we have been able to determine, a barbecue festival is a nation within a nation. And the official state religion of suicidefoodistan sanctions—nay!—mandates an all-encompassing belief in the redemptive power of animals just asking for it.

First up: this bizarre rechanneling of patriotic fervor into fevered carnivory. (Are they really so far removed, those two sacred impulses?) The message here has become garbled, buried under the insistent rumple of Old Glory, but it might go something like this: “I am an American pig. I am angry. I have such contempt for the lower nations of the world that I flaunt my willingness to eat myself and the members of my family. I taste like… freedom!”



The colonel stars in an equally mysterious scenario. After much discussion we have come to the conclusion that some filthy do-gooder has attempted to drag the kiln-baked colonel from the oven, but he is having none of it. See the grooves his trotters carve in the floor? He wants to stay in that oven. He needs to reach the desired temperature.









The other imagery is straightforward. For instance, this rib-brandishing chef. He is, of course, a mainstay of suicide food, down to the chef hat and the bandanna of the damned. Raise that platter high, you shining symbol of suicidefoodism’s sour promise! (Not to mention misplaced apostrophes. Finger lick'in (sic) good, indeed.)










This lantern-jawed fellow takes his own succulence very seriously. The whole of Chi-Town can go up in flames all over again, and he won't mind—as long as you cast a hungry eye in his direction. Really, his pride is practically sinful.






Our Cedar Rapids travelogue ends with this puzzling signage. A scampering boar requests that you vote for him and acknowledge his suitability as a foodstuff. Fair enough. This is standard, by-the-book suicide food behavior. It's the policeman pig trucking off a load of piglets that is novel and troubling. What have the wee ones done? Were they not delicious enough? Is that their crime?


(Thanks to Dr. Jason for the referral and the photos.)







Addendum: You should know that the 20th Annual CRBBQR featured more entertainment than animals thoughtfully ushered into the afterlife. Music abounded too, provided by the likes of the Boogie Woogers, Large Midgets, and Obsidian's Dream. (There was even a booth from Veridian Credit!)