Mainely Grillin' & Chillin'

Lobster: Say, when you think about the Raitt Homestead Farm's Mainely Grillin' & Chillin' Country BBQ State Championship, what's the first thing that comes to mind?

Pig: Hard to say, Lob. I guess the grilling? Or maybe the chilling?

Lobster: They're both important aspects of the G&C festivities, that's for sure. But aren't you forgetting something?

Pig: No, I don't think...

Lobster: Come on, Pig. What's the best part? The Reason for the Season?

Pig: Um...

Lobster: There's the grilling. The chilling. And the...?

Pig: The killing!

Lobster: Now you got it!

Pig: If it weren't for us getting killed, none of the rest of it would be worth a darn.

Lobster: Too true.

Pig: And the spilling. Spilling our blood?

Lobster: Sure, I guess.

Pig: And the willing? Like, making out your will?

Lobster: Yeah, but it's not like we own anything to give away. It's borrowed time all the way! We can't even claim ownership of our bodies.

Pig: There's the Adirondack chairs, too. Can't forget them.

Lobster: They make the chilling so much easier.

Pig: To us!

Lobster: To us!

*clink!*

Vintage Crawfish

In his pan, the crawgentleman salts himself judiciously and checks the results with his hand mirror.

You know how we sometimes believe that our modern world, with its hurry-up underpinning, its speeding technology, its celebrity scandals, is a breeding ground for absurdity and insanity?

Well, sure, maybe.

But things were plenty crazy back in the days of celluloid collars and toothbrush mustaches, too.

For instance, this crustacean has clearly gone around the bend. He can manipulate objects. He demonstrates a sense of self. He cares about his appearance. And yet he cooperates with his killers. He will season himself, thank you very much. No, no, don't bother setting him in the—no, he will arrange himself in the pan. He can do it. If you would just let him—please! Just have a seat. He'll have himself brought out to you when he's ready. There's a good man. Yes, thank you.

(Thanks to Dr. Javier for the referral.)

Snapper's Saloon

With a little imagination and a whole lot of unpleasant warping of one's mind, any edible thing can become a violent, sexual trigger.

For instance, the Lobstress.

Granted, compared with hooter, it takes plenty of effort to turn snapper into a word charged with erotic possibilities, but it can be done!

Just picture gleaming chitinous claws, crimson claws that mock-snap your most delicate regions, and that lipsticked mouth looming above them, she's just laughing at you, her cruel, painted eyes smile, she strokes her hair, long earrings dangling and tinkling, and it's all you can do to lift her above the boiling water and pry those succulent claws apart, dunk her in, and slam the lid down tight, chest heaving, your face flushed with the heat from the stove, your fists clenching and unclenching in spasmodic rage.

But they saw! They saw it all! She forced you! It was all her fault! That lobstress didn't know when to let it go. She had to keep snapping, clacking again and again. That snapping never stopped. Playing, she called it. Playing?! Yeah, well, who won the game? Huh? Who won the game?

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

The Local Grill & Scoop

Animals and the desire to leave it all behind go together like fish and ice cream!

This fish hugging his ice cream dish (if that is, in fact, what it's doing) is a perfect example. Instead of clinging to life, the fish clings to its favorite dessert... receptacle. Is that even what's going on?

All we really know is that the fish has something else on its mind besides a quick flop back into the water and the possibility of resuming a normal life.

(Thanks to Dr. Joanna for the referral and 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.

Beaux Hawg BBQ

It's called the Good Life, all right?

A martini, a fine cigar. Good food, good friends. And when the good food is the good friends, so much the better.

The good pig is an instant archetype, a down-home bon vivant. He smiles at his own good fortune, shrugging in lieu of explanation.

After they've experienced everything life has to offer, they'll hoist themselves onto the barbecue. Indeed, today is a good day to die.








Addendum: Yes, sir. From Kansas to Florida, the good pig is living it up, for the time being.

Olathe's Annual Kids Fishing Derby

You know what's awesome? Fish! Fish are awesome. This one in particular.

Just look at him, leaping out of the water, the very thing that sustains him! And why? For the kids! It's all for the kids.

The fish knows kids love killing things, and he loves kids, so he's only too happy to oblige them. The beauty part? He loves dying just as much as the kids love the idea of dragging him into the reeking air where he will suffocate, slowly and awesomely. It's like symbiosis, a partnership so perfect and, well, awesome, it almost gives you the shivers.

(Sad note: Participation is limited to the first 600 kids.)

Pies 'n Thighs

Sure, it's no Packard's (or even a Thee Pitt's), but there's a certain depraved charm on offer in this Pies 'n Thighs menu. (Click on the image to enlarge it.)

You've got your tough-guy chicken endorsing the fried chicken box. You've got your fishy skipper pleased about the catfish box. You've got your lazy, degenerate pig nonchalant about the pulled pork box. So even with the conspicuous absence of a cow to point out the brisket box, this is still an impressive range of fauna and temperament.

Animals of the sea, land, and sky (kind of) have gathered to heave a single, unified, unenthusiastic sigh. Together they shrug. Just because the menu features their kinds (and maybe even their own flesh) is no reason to get bent out of shape. Or express much in the way of emotion. Just show up, pose, get eaten. That's all this bunch can handle.

Suicide Snacks: quickies 8

It's been close to a year since we allowed ourselves a moment to rest and offer up another installment of our beloved series of "Suicide Snacks." Sometimes, like today, we're just not up to the rigors of our self-imposed campaign.


Can you read the inspiring legend on her sash? She has been crowned Miss Prolificacy, the livestock-makingest pig there is! She's a one-sow pork-producing machine!






This exotic beauty, this made-up, be-kohled octopus in Portland, Oregon, wiggles her sensual arms, beckoning all comers to dine on… well, herself.

Bonus: Impossibly, this seductress is only the third octopus we have ever featured!







Really? It's just us? We're the only ones creeped out by a pig with a beard? Okay. Fair enough.








We're not sure what we're seeing here. The weary satisfaction of another factory shift competently worked, perhaps. Or maybe the muted joy of a lobster facing his imminent boiling out there on the factory floor.

Pappy's Choice Seasoning

The animals are happy, for Pappy has a plan for them.

He will sprinkle his choice seasonings upon them. Upon them all will he sprinkle the seasonings of his choosing. Yea, upon the chicken, the cow, the pig, and upon the fish that dwelleth in the sea will he cast his choicest seasoning.

The Father will transform them from dumb brutes into true Beings. Like the seasonings that adorn their flesh, they too will be marked as Chosen.

Thus are they gladdened, and their smiles they wear like wreaths of glory. Look at the cow's eyes. Hers is a gaze of pure peace. If she could, she would have Pappy choose you as well, so that you might know the joy of being truly well seasoned.

Franks & Toppings

Salmon: We're on, guys! We're on!

Cow: Hello!

Chicken: Welcome! We're the Franks & Toppings Boys, and we're happy you could come!

Salmon: And we're happy to bring you the Franks & Toppings message! Isn't that right, Chicken?

Chicken: You know it, Salmon! Franks & Toppings provides such a wonderful service to the folks in southeast Texas. It's a privilege to die, knowing we're so delicious—

Cow: Privilege to what?

Chicken: —and organic!

Cow: It's a privilege to what?

Salmon: You're stepping on his line again.

Cow: I know, I know, but did he say it's a privilege to die?!

Salmon: It is a privilege to die! That's why I hired someone to help me into this tux.

Chicken: Look, can I keep going?

Salmon: Keep going.

Cow: What's happening?

Chicken: That's right, Cow. We are lucky to die for such fine fare!

Cow: I didn't say that!

Chicken: Frankfurters, burgers, grilled salmon sandwiches, and more!

Cow: I never said that!

Salmon: And because it's organic, you can feel good about eating us.

Cow: You're sick.

Chicken: Good question, Cow. Yes, the talented cooks at Franks & Toppings will make your flesh even tastier with a wholesome selection of fresh toppings!

Cow: (sobbing)

Salmon: Get hold of yourself! Say the thing about grass-fed beef.

Cow: About…?

Salmon: Grass-fed beef! Like the picture!

Cow: Where the hell did you get that? I didn't pose for that! What the hell's going on?

Chicken: Ha ha! Good one, Cow. They should listen to our jingle!

Salmon: That'll get your toe tapping!

Cow: (teeth chatter)

Chicken: And your mouth watering!

Cow: Oh god oh god oh god.

Landry's Seafood Restaurants, Inc.

And then there's this guy.

He has certainly settled into his role as seafood with panache. A tawdry, leering panache, to be sure, but have you ever seen a crawfish with more self-confidence?

Feet dangling in the ol' briny, teeth clamped on a cigarette holder worthy of Thurston Howell, suspect mustache winking in the sun, he's the very model of looking-out-for-number-one-ism. That he expresses his exceptionality by playing the part of foodstuff will discomfit no one familiar with our work.

He will be boiled and cracked apart, his pale flesh dug from his blood-red carapace, and he accepts it all—the attention, the adulation, the respect—as nothing less than his due.







Addendum: Or maybe he's a lobster?

Addendum 2: An earlier Landry's crustacean, this one exhibiting none of the moneyed importance of the current crawfish. Or lobster or whatever.

Shrimp Daddy's

This is living the life.

Just relaxing in the cocktail glass, a giant lemon wedge for company. Take it easy, you know? Just conform your chitinous exterior to the glass's contours.

Prop an elbow on the rim.

Looking sharp with that bow tie. You might be on the way out, but you're not down. Not yet. Takes more than a boiling bath to do you in. Believe it: you're laughing! Digging the scene!

This is your time. It's all about you.

When they come around, looking for the tenderest place to slip the tines in, lower your shades and give 'em the line:

"Who's your daddy?"

Shrimp's got it going on.