Little Sheep Hot Pot

What's so great (read: not great) about this little guy is how particular he is. With his little bow-tie and his little blue eyes and his little smile and the little red... things in his hair (horns? dinner rolls? lobster tails?) and his transparent little ears. This is clearly not just some old lamb. This is, well, this specific lamb.

So what might have been a generic still-living-ingredient is presented instead as an individual baby animal. An individual baby animal shipped from Inner Mongolia and lightly boiled and served in Beijing.

It's one of suicidefoodism's enduring paradoxes: seeing the animal who was butchered for your supper as a separate being, a being apart from some great abstract flock or herd—and a cute baby being at that!—somehow renders it more easy to kill and consume. Little Sheep Hot Pot's patrons don't want more psychological distance. They want to get right in there, oohing and aahing as they settle their napkins on their laps.

We might have assumed people would react to such a character with revulsion or, at the very least, distaste. Or, we might have assumed that before we started our Great Project.

Agnomarket

Adorably wandering the aisles of an Athens supermarket (uperagora) comes the little woolly lamb.

In his adorable overalls he comes. With his adorable toolbelt he comes.

Adorably, he is employed by the market. To provide whatever the customers require. Directions to the olives? Yes, yes, of course. Wet spill by the fresh-made baklava? Certainly. The men's toilet out of order? He'll get right to work on it.

He is the adorable epitome of service. He exists only to give.

And at the end of his shift, he'll give his last. Whether in the form of souvlaki or kleftiko, or any of the multitude of dishes with which the Greeks pay him tribute—the market is even named after him and his flesh!—he will at last, adorably wide-eyed, surrender.

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

Lamb Shanks at Hell Pizza

This huggable little fleecy-face has truly found himself.

And, to think, the only price for his happiness, his boundless, giggling joy—his fluffy-cloud serenity—was a couple legs. And hind ones at that.

Plus, now he has a cute little contraption for wheeling himself across the meadow!

And where did his unwanted, practically vestigial legs go? Why, to a New Zealand pizza chain, of course!

Talk about your basic win-win scenario: The lamb becomes an ovine/cyborg (the Lambtron 2000), and pizza customers get to dine on the legs of lambs!

(Thanks to Dr. Maria for the referral.)

Mellin Baby Food

Italian babies live like emperors!

They eat chickens and cows and fish, naturally. But their palates push them far beyond the pedestrian tastes of humbler infants. Push them, in fact, to the consumption of rabbits, lambs, ostriches, and horses! (There's something especially grand about the thought of a horse—a stamping, champing beast, so sturdy, so tall, so proud—killed, puréed, homogenized, and portioned into tiny packages for the delectation of a diapered Nero.)

The power and goodness of tyrannical children makes dying and being eaten that much more honorable! To be spooned into their pure mouths! To be wiped from their rosy cheeks and glistening chins!













The rabbit smiles shyly at the thought of it.

The lamb beams a gentle grin.

A wholesome smirk plays upon the chicken's beak.

Today, they will be served to babies, accompanied by the fanfare of Italian airplanes threading the skies and Italian trains charging into tunnels. What a send-off!

(Thanks to Dr. Marina for the photos.)

Lamb Takedown

The Lamb Takedown, we surmise, is an Iron Chef-style spectacular wherein people cook and eat lambs. Straightforward enough, as far as these things go.

Yes, the lamb on the banner is a confusion of cultural signs: innocence married to 80s-era heavy metal (Lamb Takedown is rendered in Iron Maiden's font) and a more recent post-punk aesthetic (expressed by means of the facial jewelry).

When we consider the purpose of the lamb is to be taken down—about time those docile grass-nibblers got their comeuppance!—the jumbled cultural references make perfect "sense."

The twinkle in his eye reminds us that the lamb and the rest of his fuzzy playmates are more than willing to be taken down and taken apart. The lambs are eager participants in their own destruction. Or perhaps this one is depicted as looking down from heaven on tattered wings, having already been lovingly (and adorably) destroyed. From above the Beyond he smiles approvingly. Well killed, gentlemen. Well killed.

As he assures the Lamb Takedown audience and competitors: "Ewe will be rocked."

The bad-boy iconography is there as a balm to the two or three takedowners who might flinch at the thought of killing baby animals in such a self-congratulatory, celebratory way. For them, the rebellious typesetting and nosering offer, at least, a pretext for the killing. Sure, the lamb looks childlike—they might say—but he knows what he's getting into. He knows the score. He's a streetwise urchin birthed in suburbia's rotten crucible. Shed no tears for him.


(Thanks to Dr. Anthony for the referral.)









Addendum: We're not making it up.

Free Range Dog Chews

Something new from the architects of suicidefoodism’s hollow bastion: animals who live to sacrifice themselves not to humans and their storied and boundless appetites, but instead to their animal companions!

Here we have a mocking parody of the truism that to declare some animals family and others food is an act not of reason, but of caprice. How blind we were! We have no doubt now that the airwaves and annals are replete with similar examples of suicidal pet food. If only we could have opened our eyes earlier and seen! Whole vistas of fresh horrors waited only for a glance!

And now that we have—at last—seen, we cannot look away. It is as if we have only now been told the story of War, of Pain, of Betrayal. We hunger for it, for the truth it tells of Man’s dark heart.

In this chapter, Free Range Dog Chews and Chicken Breast Wraps. Such a sense of equality this grinning, thumbs-upping chicken has. It makes no difference to him whether he winds up in a human or canine stomach! As long as he gets to die, he’s satisfied! If only we could all be so willing to see the commonalities shared by all life! And it’s not just chickens who possess this Alpha of wisdom, this first thought, this very Basis for Action. Cod also, and shrimp, and crabs feel it and know.

However, for all their adherence to the Movement's dogma, Free Range Dog Chews will not—can not!—be confined by its conventions. No! For even while they show us the delighted chicken and his merry marine martyrs, they commit the sin of Pride. Like heroes daring the very gods, they glow with hubris. Witness these of their products. They don't hide the ugliness of their enterprise beneath the now-familiar whitewash.

They are forging a new way. A sneering, arrogant way! They offer neither "treats," nor "morsels"—those cowardly anonyms. Instead, they are frank, bizarrely so. Lamb tracheas! Lamb hocks! Lamb lungs! Too powerful for lies, they proclaim themselves! Too powerful for lies? For the lies that lubricate the machinery of suicidefoodism's very world? How?










And then, this. This final statement. Lamb Pizzle Twists. Forgive them their one nod to propriety, their one uncharacteristic flirtation with euphemism. Pizzle. Are you unfamiliar with the term? (Are they banking on your ignorance?) A pizzle is a penis. These are "twists" made from the penises of lambs. (Better that you know.)












The lamb keeps on smiling! How could he not? Pizzle Twists are his ultimate degradation!




















Addendum (10/06/10): Now this newly discovered image really shows off the lamb's true feelings! Banished is the specter of the lamb's ambivalence. He is tee-totally, 100% on board.

















Addendum 2 (12/20/10): Another thumbs-upping critter happy to be some dog's dinner!

Suicide Clothing: a digression

Today's suicidal animal has so many choices! He need not bequeath his body to the butcher or the grocer. No, he is limited only by the sick power of his warped imagination.

Of course, as we know from our studies of suicidefoodiana, medication or other treatment (even on an outpatient basis!) is rarely recommended. No, the "best" thing to do, it would seem, is to give the poor beasts a final, friendly handshake and shove them on their way to eternity. Which can take the form of spits, cauldrons, bullets, hooks, harpoons, and the swords of the torero.

Or even the gentle ministrations of the professional tanner? Well, why not indeed? It certainly doesn't make any less sense, now, does it? And this explains our present subjects. Seen here in an image appearing on a website devoted to the proper care of leather goods, these three chums—may we infer their bond from the fact that they are bathing together?—have willed their bodies to the practitioners of the sartorial arts. Maybe not their entire bodies, but at least their outsides. (Of course, the lamb doesn't really have his little heart in. That wool will grow back. He is our first suicidefoodist poseur!)

Like all good Accomplice Animals, this trio feels compelled to go the extra mile. Hence, the old Suds 'n' Scrubs. We wouldn't want to force the tanner to stoop to cleaning the hides himself, would we? Think of this as a purification ritual, their final act before committing their flesh to posterity.

For your "pleasure," some more pictures of happy skinwear extolling the virtues of cleanliness:















Addendum (3/08/08): And here's an animal who—what's her deal?—isn't happy with the arrangement.













Addendum 2 (3/01/10): This cow is so excited to take part that she's made herself into a hood roof ornament for Jamin' (sic) Leather! (Thanks to Dr. Slodki for the referral.)














Addendum 3 (8/17/10): This cow and her ass are happy to be here, in the world of cows (and their asses) being transformed into clothing. (Thanks to Dr. Chris for the referral and the photo.)

Punk Farm

Punk Farm (Knopf, ISBN: 0-375-82429-4) is our current favorite token of suicide food. This charming picture book's got everything: the lies we tell children, complacency dressed up as rebellion, and a worldview so warped it's practically hallucinogenic.

The book concerns a "punk" quintet of farm animals calling themselves Punk Farm. These anarchists, what do they do? What is their statement? Do they pour sugar in all the tractors' gas tanks? Do they murder the farmer and his complicit wife in their beds? Do they even try to make a break for it? No, no, and no. They put on a show. Boy, talk about shaking up the system. (They should have called themselves Lackey and the Uncle Toms. The goat even wears a chain around his neck—"fashion" statement or sly celebration of his subservient role?)

It gets worse: These radicals hell-bent for leather are such cultural renegades, their big fear is being found out by the farmer while they're punking it up.

"The farmer's light is on!" The animals freeze. The microphone screeches. Footsteps can be heard in the distance. Will they get caught?

What's the farmer going to do to you? Fatten you up for slaughter? Keep you perpetually pregnant and take your babies away from you? Um, guys? He's already doing all that.

And it gets worse worse: When they do put on their "rebellious" show, their big number is "Old MacDonald"! That's right—when they finally stir some shit up, they sing a song that ratifies the farmer-livestock relationship.

Of course, this whole book is a paean to the status quo, to the rule of law, to practices that even the least self-aware animal would choose to destroy. But not our "punks."






Addendum (10/20/07): We just discovered that the feature-film version of Punk Farm will not, in fact, be produced by DreamWorks. We confess that we never knew a deal of this sort had been in the works at all. It was to feature these so-called "rebellious" animals staging an all-animal music festival called (shudder) (cringe) (a little bit of vomiting) "Livestock."

The Great American Barbecue Roadshow

We got ourselves a convoy! It's a parade of proud, soon-to-be-eaten citizens! All your favorites have come from far and wide to converge upon Westminster, Maryland:

The methane-spewing environmentally conscious cow pedaling in the lead; the "Look, Ma! No hands!" chicken endangering pedestrians left and right in her chartreuse convertible; the skateboarding lamb, representing the younger set (naturally); and, of course, the "man" of the hour, that glad-handing flag waver, the pig, wallowing in barbecue sauce up to his crotch.

In an admirable show of good ol' American gumption and civic pride, these creatures have hit the road. If you won't come to them—to help yourself to a leg here, a breast there, and then a trip over to the rib table—they'll come to you! (I'd like to see French livestock do that.)

It's like the ice cream truck for the blood-thirsty masses!