Foies Gras Marie

A joyeux Tokyo Rose for the the worldwide war between Human and Animal, Foies Gras Marie purrs like a seductress. Telling you lies so blatant you have no choice but to surrender and believe, she flaunts her liver and the livers of her fellow ducks.

For reasons best known to their psychiatrists, the purveyors of foie gras—the gavageoisie—always, always, always make sure to draw your attention to the birds' throats.

The birds are taunting us. With their big bows, their bonnets tied so gaily beneath their chins, the loose ends snapping in the breeze, those damn, depraved ducks are taunting us.

They want us to remember their necks and to envision the feeding tube and the gunk it extrudes. They want us to picture it, to bear it in mind as we dine on the mush that used to be their livers.

And they laugh! They delight! They cackle! These waddling, paddling she-demons cackle!

(Thanks to Dr. Adrienne for the referral and the second photo.)

Suicide Snacks: quickies 9

When the lengthy sermons are too much, we turn to our by-now-classic series of rapid-fire diatribules for relief. (Revisit the most recent installment, won't you?)

You tell 'em, duck! What, do those tofu-munching hippies think they're too good for your repulsive liver or something?




The swiggin' pig of Nashville, Tennessee doesn't do anything halfway. He lives life at full throttle, sometimes spending seven, eight hours a day down at the local tavern. And he dies full tilt, too.








A shrimp crossed with a Segway? It's the cuddliest version yet of half-animal/half-machine monstrosity.










Yes, yes, it's not about meat. It's a rare example of dairy-related business. Still, it's remarkable because it's like the cow's innermost thoughts and feelings will not be repressed. The cow's undeniable gratitude at being used shines out, through bone, muscle, and hide.

Luv-a-Duck

Luv-a-Duck, we are told, is "Australia's Favourite Duck." The praise does seem to have gone to the bird's head. The way she lowers her eyes, tilting her bill—oh, she knows how they feel about her. She knows they think she's something special, all right.

Now, we know and you know what they mean by "love" (pardon us: luv) and "favorite" (sorry: favourite). By the former, they don't mean "feel profound tenderness toward or affection for." And by the latter, they don't mean "most esteemed." Even a child knows that the Luv-a-Duck corporation means simply that they really like eating the things. They describe the flavo(u)r as "superior," and remind us that duck "can be reheated and served as a prestige meal."

But the matter that concerns us here is what the duck thinks. By her bashful pose, it's clear she knows what form their luv takes. It is that ravening love that craves and devours, the all-consuming love (or, well, the duck-consuming kind, at least) that seeks union of a purely digestive sort. It sees the beloved as nothing more than aliment, a substance to be sacrificed and swallowed. What they love about the duck are precisely (and exclusively) those qualities she can embody only after she's been destroyed.

To which the duck replies, "Luv me as you will. I'm yours."

(Thanks to Dr. Kirsten for the referral.)

Adega do Rossio

It's a happy woodland reunion and you're invited! Pull up a seat with the wolf (we guess) and the crow. The pig's been in the kitchen all morning and the chicken's dead, plucked, and ready.

This scene, found in the window of a Lisbon eatery, soothes us with its mood of quiet sylvan harmony. The players are so content, so amiable, each so satisfied with his lot. The wolf (we guess) prepares to feed, the crow to scavenge on the remains, the pig to serve with obsequience, and the chicken to be destroyed.

Every niche in the forest is filled. Every relationship finds its full expression. The woods ring with sheer, blessed systematic rationale. The sacrifice we witness is a celebration of reason!

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






Addendum: This isn't the first plucked sexpot we've seen. Far from it. There was her. And them, of course. And then, oh dear. Yes, there were these two birds.

Rick Curtis Quality Meats

This mural is the very essence of sanguine. Bloody, yes, of course. It's painted on the wall of a butcher's shop, for crying out loud. The implication of blood is everywhere. The thing may as well have been painted with blood.

But, no. We mean the collegial scene. The gang is so darn cheerful, so content with their lot. The whole bunch is satisfied and easy-going, from the chicken getting ready to attack the dangling string of sausages to the pig enjoying sexual harassment at the hands of a malicious, grabby sheep. The butcher and the steer—look at the way they've flung their arms over each other's shoulder. These two, inexplicably, have managed to form a real bond of friendship.

We say inexplicably because the steer, in his living form, couldn't have been around much longer than the time it took to pose for the mural. We wouldn't have thought he could have made much of an impression on the busy butcher. Then again, the steer does look to be a character, what with his cosmopolitan ear- and nosering and his country-gentleman wheatstraw.

That they all—well, the four-legged and feathered among them—will be, you know, gone before you know it is hardly enough to dampen the mood. These are quality meats, of good character, made of strong stuff. They know their place. More than that, they take obvious pride in knowing their place. There they go, smiling, blushing, cavorting, sexually harassing, right up the end.

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

National Foie Gras Week

One year ago, National Foie Gras Week took place, and the echoes still resound!

Even now, the birds are mocking the misplaced concern of the animalists. Do you see? Do you see how the necks of the liver-givers are adorned, emphasized, or otherwise exaggerated? Here it's not neck ties—it's a napkin and a fanciful O. Whatever it takes to focus our eyes on the source of the birds' pathos and triumph.

The fowl are more than mere foodstuffs (or living containers for distended livers). They are freedom fighters, offering an example of resistance. They will not lie down and let the simpering do-gooders take away our foie gras! (That's right: our foie gras.)

Along with Chicago Chefs for Choice, they will go down fighting. (Well, as long as they go down, it's all good. Right, Chicago Chefs?) With their dying breaths, they will proclaim the Truth! That a life without bird organs on crackers is no kind of life! That a dreary, meaningless existence—a mortal slog with nothing at the end but oblivion—is not enough for some! No! They will be spread on toast points. They will be crammed into terrines!

The gavageoisie will not be denied!






Addendum: More food for thought from the land of liverté. "Upon this duck's liver, this is delicious—and I know what I'm talking about!" (Thanks to Drs. aelle and Desdemona for translation assistance.)

Festival of Cruelty 12

We apologize, but it's time once again. Time to hold our noses and plunge into suicidefoodism's more honest sister city. (Do you remember the last time we visited?) It's not pretty. There are no convenient, comforting lies to hide behind. No illusions of consent. No coy, winking livestock. Here, all is coercion and force. Before we're done, you might remember suicidefoodism's deceptions with fondness.

Denny's Chicken Warning: Superbowl XLIV. The violence. The aggression. The intimidation. And that's just the commercials! (Thank you.) In this high-spirited Denny's spot, a burly, egg-loving chicken hater puts the birds on notice. He's coming for their eggs, and he hopes to terrorize them with the news. The rest is unrestrained hilarity as the chickens panic, the tears of mirth roll on, and a "good" time is had by "all."

(Thanks to Dr. KCinDC for the referral.)



Au Pied de Cochon: From Paris, City of Lights, land of sophistication and good taste, comes this ode to brutality. Three red-nosed fiends in chef's hats and aprons terrorize a pig, preparing to hack off his foot, riding him, staring at his mouth while, um, fingering a mysterious object of uncertain culinary importance. While all roads lead to this elegant establishment, bringing the hordes of refined diners, the pig and others like him are wrestled to the ground and slaughtered, on and on, jour et nuit.

(Thanks to Dr. Dan for the improved picture of this one.)


Meat Monster: The act of butchery has become so difficult, so gosh-darned tedious, that the barbekooks have devised an automatic, self-guiding killing mechanism. Just program your coordinates, and this thing will rush a panicked animal to your doorstep, ready to be hacked in half by steel jaws. Our machines are truly extensions of our will! The future is now!




The Taylor Corn & Que: The pig roasts alive while the bully steer lords it over him, a casual god of war, one blood-red tomato held aloft.





El Puerco Lloron: The weeping pig weeps for his life, for the lives of his family and friends, all the pigs who lived before him—briefly—only to be killed, cooked, and eaten. No weeping can undo his fate. His tears are only a seasoning for his carcass.

(Thanks to Dr. Mrs. Suicidefood for the referral.)








Duck in a Can: More gracious cuisine, this time in the form of a duck, body still stuck inside a tin can, fleeing his good-natured, amateur butcher. We know the man is a hobbyist, rather than a professional duck-killer, by his clothing. No white coat to denote his objective distance. The man is possessed by a demon of bloodshed. His tongue flaps from his mouth as he tears after the duck. He might even eat that thing raw.

Rainier Restaurant

Pig: Seriously, guys, this is gonna be great.

Chicken: I think you need to explain it again.

Pig: What is your guyses' problem? It's so simple!

Duck: Okay, okay. We show up and then…

Pig: They eat us.

Chicken: Yeah, that's what I thought you said. I guess I just hoped I heard it wrong.

Duck: So they eat us.

Pig: Yes, they eat us. What is so hard to understand?

Duck: Why are we wearing napkins?

Pig: It's funny!

Chicken: And why are you holding silverware?

Duck: How are you holding silverware?

Pig: It just makes it funny! Like, "Oh, here we are, ready to enjoy our meal. What's that you say? We are the meal?" That's funny! It's good!

Duck: Because they eat us.

Pig: Yes! Now you get it!

Chicken: I don't get it.

Duck: Me neither.

Chicken: Where's the funny part?

Pig: The whole thing is the funny part!

Chicken: But we get eaten—

Pig: Here they come. Just act surprised!

(Thanks to Dr. Mrs. Suicidefood for the referral.)

Pekingeend Duck

An international atrocity! It's a package of Dutch Peking duck!

Look for a moment at the mother duck's face. The faint smile playing about her bill, the lines beneath the eye that just might represent… tears? A mother's tears and a mother's smile, put together, can mean only one thing: maternal pride!

The mother duck is proud! Proud that her offspring has managed to achieve what she herself could not. Look at him there, dead, head lolling obscenely over the edge of the platter, body plucked, feet jammed into those hideous, euphemistic paper hats! What's not to be proud of?

And what a way to ring in the new year. Just keep telling yourself things can only get better from here!

(Thanks to Dr. Edmund for the referral.)







Addendum: Now that you've "enjoyed" your New Year's duck, how about a helping of New Year's pig?

Agricon 2009

The right jolly driver is surrounded by his right jolly mates. (That's mates in the British sense.) And they have every reason to be jolly.

Why, they have a road, a means of hauling and being hauled, and they have Agricon, "the only conference dedicated to those working within the Agricultural, Foods, Tipping, Milk and Livestock sectors of today’s road transport industry."

Naturally, the ebullient sow has pride of place (she gets the passenger seat instead of steerage), but all of the animals are, you know, haulage. Cargo. Goods. Stuff. Just this side of inanimate. Don't let the smiles fool you—these things are barely alive.

And that's what they're smiling about!

You see, in a strict, class-based society like England's, there's a certain comfort in knowing one's place. It offers some a security denied them by too much potential. The Road Haulage Association provides the livestock all the lack-of-potential they could ever wish for.

Dixon May Fair

Suicide Food as interpreted by a visionary with the sensibilities of Hieronymus Bosch! Everywhere your gaze wanders, the quaint livestock fair is revealed as a nightmarish horrorscape!

Wheresoever you cast your gaze, new grotesques await you! All about the panopticon, demons lurk!

Behold!

1. The Trio of the Condemned. While the animals count their few remaining moments, the musicians play on, as uncaring as statues.

2. The incarnation of insanity. The world around him devolves into a hellish hallucination and he swings through the air in a bizarre simulation of joy.

3. Two cows—one a blue ribbon winner (she'll fetch a handsome price!)—lasciviously regard the taurine fiddler. Oblivious to looming catastrophe, they think only of procreating. Lust has overcome them and banished decency. Even amid the conflagration, their thoughts are ever on the bestial.

4. As if acknowledging that they'll never be able to outrun the falling hatchet, the motorcycle-riding hogs pause in their hedonism and face death with enthusiasm.

5. Meek and mild, these sheep will inherit only the whirlwind.

6. Ignorance personified, the goat, popcorn in hand, believes he's watching a harmless performance. He is unable to comprehend the enormity of what is before him.



7. Jitterbugging young chickens. The equivalent of fiddlers plying their craft while Rome burns?

8. A delusional chicken dances alongside her son in an updated retelling of Oedipus Rex.

9. A minstrel show? Oh, great.

10. The duck administers his own force-feeding.