Niku-Mansei

This venerable Japanese beefstitution is really more Bovine Nation in miniature than business dedicated to the art and science of preparing portions of cows for consumption. Why else would the logo bear this charming portrait of cows from a variety of stations and stages of life? The gentleman, the crêpe-making matron, the pram-pushing mama, the young sow with the parasol, the adorable tykes. It could be a scene from fin de siècle Paris!

The effect of the message is twofold: First, by presenting the entire Family of Cow, the animals in all their humanity, as it were, their status as injured parties is obscured. Their grievances are refuted before they can even be considered.

Second, by showcasing a broad swath of cow society, they further neutralize the animals' objections by making bovicide appear uncontroversial to all of cowkind. In fact, it is such a commonplace that thoughts of fear or horror never entered any of the cows' minds.






Addendum: This is the same strategy we saw employed by Sweetwater's seafood restuarant. "They don't mind," the images say. "None of them mind. Up and down animal civilization, they're all on board. So! Ready to order?"

Addendum 2: We're reminded of this papercraft from Japan. And (scroll down) who's that making a cameo? More cow-related papercraft—from Niku-Mansei! Small world!

Unidentified Japanese Barbecue Restaurant

Your first thought might very well be "That poor husky pig. He's obviously got some issues."

And, yeah, sure, it's easy to imagine his childhood—the taunts, the insults, the endless comparisons to his athletic older brother Donald—and the way it warped his view of himself. How it turned him, in fact, into a pig who sees nothing wrong with advertising pork.

So there he is, believing it's all he can aspire to ("Coach Franklin was right about me!"), pointing out barbecued meats with his flyswatter thing (?), and letting himself be the butt of the joke. Again.

What a life. (While it lasts.)

That's probably your first thought.

Then your second thought would have to be, "They did all this for a Chris Farley gag?"

This time it's not just us.

Your third thought: "I don't know who I feel most sorry for."

Perturbed Cow political cartoon

We are again reminded that suicidefoodism is such a commonplace that anyone—everyone—can press it into service, knowing that it will serve as a benchmark, a universal password, a shibboleth to open any door. Which is why we see it so often in food advertisements, of course, but also in advertisements for other consumer goods and services. Even toys.

So when a political issue requires simplification, so that its basics might be understood readily by people from all walks of life, suicidefoodism is hauled up from the cellar of cliché once again. Here, in a cartoon that ran in the Rome (Georgia) News-Tribune, some point or other is illustrated with a great, hulking cow, angry that his prospects of being eaten by the Japanese citizenry are greatly diminished because of a trade dispute.

No, it doesn't make sense. And the way it doesn't make sense is of iconic familiarity. From clothing to sports franchises, from children's books to the plight of the family farm, suicidal animals are good for safe, reliable references.

(Thanks to Dr. Desdemona for the referral.)

American Beef Papercraft

Could there be a more effective ambassador for American beef than this cut-and-fold cow?

Who better to persuade the people of Japan to put their money in American cattle than someone with an insider's experience and insight?

Like the nation she represents, American Beef is expansive and cheerful, full of the optimism and pluck native to her people.



















Happy to be assembled. Equally happy to be disassembled.

She's here to serve, proud to be exploited in any way her customers see fit!


















Addendum (9/05/10): At last! We have unearthed another example of suicidefoodist papercraft. Here is the Niku-Mansei cow, proud representative of a chain of beef restaurants. It took more than a year, but it was worth it! (?)

Agura Bokujo Farm and Online Beef

In Japan, land of technological marvels, anything is possible. Miniaturization, automation, vicious game shows, and now the first major innovation in dead cow purchasing in years!

Gone are the days when consumers had to leave their homes in search of cow parts. To market, to market, you unlucky men and women, there to wait in line with your unwashed brothers. Navigating those carts, fumbling for wallets, gathering up change, all the while having your meat selections—the very privatest of private matters—scrutinized by shopkeeper, butcher, and cashier alike.

But no more!

For now, thanks to the Agura Bokujo Farm, beef can be purchased online. If that’s all there were, the parades would be short indeed.

Here’s where we come in: The cows, natural proponents of the old system (to be fair, it was the only system they knew of that could insure their reliable processing, purchase, and consumption), have given the enterprise their blessing.

And, really, why wouldn’t they? Buying cow meat on the computer can only increase demand and efficiency. Which is every cow’s treasured hope. The graphic to the right is an Agura Bokujo illustration of their total calf-to-product-you-can-buy-online system!

And to drive the point home with the meat-buying public, AB has prepared a charming (and accurate!) video.

Set to a delightfully off-beat a cappella jingle, the commercial shows us all the true meaning of suicidal cows learning about online beef purchasing.

First, we see two cows peering into a house. "Where is everyone?" they wonder. "Why are we not—as is normal—encountering droves of people offering money to buy our flesh?"

Next, the two cows (now clearly seen to be mother and child), stroll aimlessly through a park. Who will solve this dreadful mystery? Will they never be butchered and bought? In the park, they meet a man in a bowler. The man reads a newspaper: "Agura's Japanese Black Hair Cattle Beef. You can buy it online, too." Glorious truth! Do you see? All is well! Well? Better than that! All is divinely modern!

Our last shot finds our cows in their living room, trying this newfangled thing out for themselves! Yes—they are eagerly ordering beef (their own beef?) online. See the cute cow "hand" pointer icon? Precious!

(Thanks to Dr. Sandra for the referral and background information.)

Japan Whaling Association

Too long have chickens and pigs, cows and lambs—even rattlesnakes!—borne the honorable burden of holding aloft suicidefoodism's grimy, tattered banner.

Now, thanks to the beneficence of the Japan Whaling Association—do you picture men in top hats and monocles, clutching antique harpoons with scrimshaw shafts?—the giants of the deep have their shot at glory. Oh, sure, technically many species of whale are endangered. And, indisputably, whales are intelligent creatures with their own societies. But now, here, they have the option of seeking to be killed and eaten. For how long has man denied them this opportunity? For how long has man withheld from them that cherished right of all free peoples, the right of representing economic concerns dedicated to their very destruction?

The JWA means to atone.

The first cetacean gentleman (on the left), the fellow angrily holding the knife and fork, assures us that "whale meat is safe." He is affronted by the very idea that Japan's human citizens might have thought otherwise and forsworn him and his kin. That they should act as though they were better than him! Outrageous! Too good to eat whale? It's safe! Safe!

The waiter/chef to his right is more sanguine. After all, he doesn't need to convince anyone—he's already serving a willing customer. He buoyantly urges, "Let's all cook and eat me."

Good for you, whales! Before you know it, you'll have all of Japan up to their wrists in bloody whale meat. And then the sea's the limit!

(Thanks to Dr. Torque for the referral and the translation assistance.)






Addendum: Dr. Mrs. Suicidefood shows us that other Japanese whales are eager to get in on the act!

Good Octopus

Here is a "good" octopus, courtesy of the Jeonghwa company. He is not solely good, though. He is also, as his sign proclaims, "new." Moreover, judging by his impish wink, he is a real character.

But it is his goodness that is salient. It's part of his very identity, his very name:

(The Korean hangul writing "k-u-s" in the name of the product stands for good. In this context, "k-u-s" is pronounced koot, no doubt a Koreanized approximation of good.)

The octopus does not object to any of this. In fact, he is cutely agreeable to this whole situation. Which renders the product all the more objectionable.

We can hear your rational objection: Perhaps Korean food companies, like so many Japanese enterprises, rely on the Cult of Cute as a routine ploy. Perhaps, then, this image is nothing more than reflexive business-as-usual, no more revealing than any generic logo.

Well spoken, rational objector. Well spoken, but wrong.

Here is packaging from another Jeonghwa product, Soft Smoked Squid Leg:

The first thing to consider is that this is not an entire animal. These are the "legs" of numerous squids. As such, this product is resistant to the forces of Cute.












A close-up of the package will show definitively what Jeonghwa thinks of these squid:

Hatred might be too strong a word. But there is no love here. The squid is merely a victim, a dead thing dredged from the sea. Its x-eyes mark its affiliation in the brotherhood of inert objects, whose former status as living being may now be disregarded.

And now, at last, we understand the subtext of Good Octopus. Good does not refer to his palatability. It is not synonymous with tasty. It means "obedient."

The Good Octopus does not resist his commodification, as the recalcitrant squid must have. The octopus is compliant. He is safe—for the status quo, for the system. He is good suicidal food, ready for his turn in the bag, even going so far as to trumpet the novelty of his unique packaging and ingredients.