Hard Ball Farms

We're going to be honest. What really draws us in here is the stunning, totally unironic aptness of this place's name. Yes, there's the whole pig-with-the-cheap-crown angle. But after all this time, another pig seduced by the false promise of a better life—a life of clout and authority—hardly has the power to move us.

We've seen the Nahunta dupe, the Pork Palace pawn, "King" Richard, the Pink King, and the Brooklyn Boob. And that's just the pigs! So forgive us our lack of enthusiasm.

But the name. Hard Ball Farms. Could the pigs hope for a clearer signal that the good life is over for them? The name conveys the idea that they will now be treated with no tenderness or consideration. As though now they'll learn the true meaning of ruthless.

No matter. The pig doesn't mind. The pig never does.







Addendum: And don't forget the Festival on the "Noose" River. Perfect!

Txoko

Around the world, every tongue tells animals the good news: The end is nigh! Your sentence is almost done! You will soon leave the state to which your nature condemned you—petty life. (Bah!)

In this case, the language is Basque, and the animals have heard the call. They have put on their smartest clothes. Their little jackets, their little caps. The pig has even put on his little wings. Or maybe he got a head start on the death?

Anyway, they're dying or ready to die or freshly dead in their little corner (which is what "txoko" means in Basque, though it also refers to a type of restaurant, or something—we confess we're past caring).

This isn't so much ceremony for the soon-to-be-former "food" animals, as it is a formal occasion, an opportunity to go out with a bang, to say good-bye at last to life (bah!) with dignity. Everything about the image bespeaks dignity and status and rectitude: the coat of arms, the crown, the clothing. These aren't barnyard animals, after all, dumb brutes who wait around to get killed. No, these two seek it out, like they would a cunning investment or fortuitous employment prospect.

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

Revolution Barbecue

As you might expect of animals taking part in the suicidefoodist revolution, this bunch is a bit confused.

For one thing, they seem not to understand what a revolution is. Are we wrong that they appear intent on installing—and not dismantling—a monarchy? The pig's got a crown on and they stride beneath a banner proclaiming the birth of an empire.

Let's take a moment to consider this "revolution" they are fomenting. It clearly doesn't involve upraising the downtrodden or enfranchising the voiceless. Or breaking chains, walls, or despotic regimes. Or taking on the ruling class, the slavers, and connivers. Or granting rights and expanding possibilities. Or erasing the page of the past's lies and beginning a new chapter in history's noblest tome.

No. It's about putting the animals under the boot heel of the elites. (Power? To the pig?!) The grand march toward destruction! Surrender! Subjugation! The battle hymn of this revolution is a funeral dirge.

This is the Year Zero. To the fires! In you go!

Brooklyn Pork Store

Let's get back to basics, shall we? His "royal" "highness," the poor pig in this logo, is characteristic of other regal "food" animals we've profiled. Compare him with this "common man" monarch and this kingly goofball.

The main point? They can call him the sausage king. They can make a big show out of setting a plastic crown on his head. But this pig is no king. Just look at him, his tongue wagging, his dimbulb eyes goggling. Him? Royalty? He's the only one who's fooled.

Even more than most suicidefoodist tableaux, this game—this conferring of mock majesty—is an elaborate joke. The whole place is rank with the condescension shown toward the simple pig. Look at him with his chintzy crown and clip-on bow tie. The king! Ha!

But he buys it. Bless his flabby brain, he buys it.

Festival of Cruelty 13: Spotlight on Harold

We first encountered Harold in the inaugural post of our Festival of Cruelty feature. Unbeknownst to us, Harold has been busy since then, amassing a sizable body of work. We have therefore chosen to showcase Harold and his chicken-hating ways in this, our 13th installment of the Festival of Cruelty.

For those of you who are still blissfully ignorant of this hateful little series, an explanation: the Festivals of Cruelty afford us the opportunity to enjoy some plainspoken anti-animal sentiment. Instead of the usual suicidefoodist fare, with its obfuscation and misdirection—its perversion of obvious truths—we get to experience unadorned candor. It's like hearing the whispers out of range of cameras and microphones. (Revisit the previous edition, won't you?)

Which brings us back to Harold. Here is a monarch who just loves killing (or at least chasing and menacing) chickens throughout Chicago and points beyond. He can't get enough of it.





































Sometimes Harold keeps his regal status under wraps. But whether he's in his crown and ermine-trimmed jacket or the humble garb of the short-order cook, whether he runs to the left or the right, whether his quarry scampers or, legless, flaps in fright, the constant is that insatiable hatchet. Those damn chickens will feel the sting of his singing steel!

(Thanks to Debora Drower for her photo of the frantic neon Harold.)

Addendum (11/08/11): Another slight Harold variation.

Yocco's

We have too long neglected this living relic, but now he gets his due.

For 88 years, our inscrutable despot has ruled over a strange and sickly kingdom. Yocco glares at lesser men and meals, beaming out his hatred in waves as emphatic as exclamation points.

He cares not for your society. He cares not for your laws. Nor your morals. Nor the way things are meant to be. To him, all of these are contemptible and small.

On his splintered throne, he tells the tale of his murderous kingdom to a rapt and bunned audience. His frankfurter people know well the king's obsessions. With boots stolen off the feet of some elfin corpse, and a forklike scepter bearing a baby wiener claimed by divine right, Yocco spins a web of self-aggrandizement. Yocco is powerful. Yocco will see them all burn. Yocco is strengthened by their deaths.

One day, Yocco will be eaten by God!

(Thanks to Drs. Sam, Patti, and Ian for their long-ago referrals.)

Le Roi Rose

Finally, a regal pig with some flair! Leave it to the Europeans to show up America's would-be pig royalty. (Like this pig. Or this one. Or him.)

The Pink King cares for neither wealth nor comfort. Like all good imperial figureheads, he cares only for conquest. Except… not the kind of conquest we usually think of when it comes to the head that wears the crown.

No, the Pink King dreams of his own conquest! The expansion of his empire interests him not at all. His Divine Right is not to rule, but to be ruled.

And so he marches beneath his wheat-blazoned banner, to the fires destined to knock him off his throne.

The Pink King is dead! Long live the Pink King!

Richard's Meat Market

King Richard provides another example of fool-headed animals snookered by a cheap crown. (Remember this one? How about this one?)

It's like he thinks he's actually in charge. Does he not wonder at the ascension of an overall-wearing clodhopper to the throne? Does he not know whence the ingredients for the boudin come? (Boudin, by the way, is a sausageal product popular, among other places, in the Bayou.) Does he not notice that the population of his squalid kingdom dwindles? Does he not see the humans with the knives behind their backs?

He is a useful puppet. Nothing more. After he has united the "people" beneath a sausage-colored banner—boudin comes in blanc, noir, and rouge varieties—they will be sacrificed. And when they're gone, it will be his turn to be hoisted upon the machinery of state and brought down to his ultimate level.

But who knows? Maybe he has sensed history unfolding about him. Maybe he has decided that serving as a temporary figurehead is worth it.

(Thanks to Dr. skeletonkrewe for the photo.)








Addendum: We can't tell. Is this young pig happy to be turned into living sausage? Or on the verge of tearful panic? He is not a vassal of King Richard's, so far as we know—just a miserable subject of some nameless boudin-based tyrant.

King of the Sea Seafood Restaurant

Weep no tears for the faded king and his forlorn kingdom!

True, the royal readerboard, record of the bards, announces the king's fate:

Killed Jumbo.

Verily was King Jumbo slain, struck down by a foe whose identity has been lost to the ceaseless waves.

But dry your eyes! The soaring songs are yet sung! Though the sign be weathered, its paint peeling, its greatness consigned to memory, the legend lives!

Recall him as though he still stands atop the waters. His trident, the blunted symbol of his meekness! His grin, the invitation to any and all to slaughter his entire people! His crown, frivolous trinket denoting nothing! Hand on hip in wan mockery of righteous anger!

The king is dead. Long live the king!

(Thanks to Dr. gongfujazz for the photo.)







Addendum: Or it's Grilled Jumbo. Either way.

Hotdog Queen

In all the time we've been observing the comings and goings of suicidefood royalty, we have never once seen a noticeably female monarch.

Until now.

This gives us the sociological opportunity we've been waiting for, the chance to compare the reign of female vs. male "food" animals. Or, in the case of the Hotdog Queen, undead food. (Recall that we never include hamburgers, frankfurters, and miscellaneous reconstituted foodstuffs among the ranks of true suicidefood. They are more like reanimated food, already dead, now "alive" again.)

Is a queen kinder than a king? Will she rule with compassion, rather than cunning? Will her people live beneath a banner of justice instead of the flag of empire?

Don't be misled by the queen's trampy casual costume, sunny disposition, and cheap, everywoman perm.

No matter how much more nurturing, caring, and tender she might be—how womanly—still she leads her loyal subjects straight into the bun. Her people are just as dead, and just as eaten, as those of any king.

King of Wings

Hear ye! Hear ye!

By order of His Royal Highness, the King of Wings, be it known:

Out of the generous heart that dwells within his tender breastmeat, His Majesty hereby decrees that every citizen of Wings shall henceforth be permitted to donate both of his or her wings to strengthen our people and reaffirm our allegiance to the time-honored principle of You Ring, We Bring.

The previous edict allowing for the donation of only one wing is hereby rescinded.

So ring, Ringers, ring!

Bringers shall we be, bringing with gladness, bringing our very wings, the pride of the kingdom, the organs by which our pride and honor take took flight!






Addendum: In the land of the wingless, the one-winged chicken is king.

Addendum 2 (5/29/10): A (slightly) different take on "You Ring, We Bring" from Jim's Famous BBQ.

Seafood Festivals, a retrospective

For sheer pageantry, nothing beats a seafood festival!

Let's face it: barbecue festivals can be tawdry affairs. Lewd, beastly, tawdry affairs. But seafood festivals are full of wholesome, welcoming energy. The fish, shrimp, crabs, what have you, are thrilled to step on dry land. This is their first foray into the world of humanity, so, unlike the sordid, jaded pigs and cows, they still love us. They've come to put in an honest day's work. To earn a fine, fine death.

They play trumpets and saxophones for us! Guitars! Some kind of thin, flexible piano keyboard things! They put on one-man-band shows for us!

In their winsome naiveté, they honestly believe they owe us something. Perhaps for having been spared the feedlots and pens? For being allowed natural lives, up until the nets trap them in the choking, alien air?
















Even their royalty and their entourages make appearances at seafood festivals. It is also possible that the two non-royal crabs are official decoys, employed to throw off subversive crustacean elements. Then again, what could plotters do to the crabs that their beloved humans aren't already planning?

We are especially touched by the pearl-wearing crab queen and the plucky shrimp she has impaled on the blessed tines of her regal fork!

Finally, we are reminded that it is not only royalty and music-making courtiers who show up for these things.

Garden-variety aquatic fun-lovers are here too!

Here we see a high-roller from Atlantic City and a skipper from Pompano Beach. Each cares enough to gasp their last in our presence, surrounded by their cherished totems: the dice, the weathered plank.












Addendum (5/28/09): Another good time for food and mankind both! These toe-tappers aren't even fazed by the prominent use of the word boil.









Addendum 2 (5/23/10): Another swinging, musical shrimp.














Addendum 3 (5/23/10): This crustacean doesn't so much swing as rock.











Addendum 4 (5/23/10): Look! It's that same darn crab again, creepy leer and all!

Addendum 5 (12/18/11): Another creepy and/or drunk crab.