Chops Specialty Meats

Pigs, pigs, pigs. Chops Specialty Meats is pigcentric!

Their figurehead is a pig. Their logo cleverly features the nose of a pig. (Is the logo-pig drowning in tar? Seeking an escape from a smoke-choked Hell?) And their fare is pig-derived. Oh, but it's so much more than that, too! Not merely pig, you understand. Also cow, chicken, rabbit, lamb, shrimp, crawfish, and frog.

What to make of this poor, crazed fellow? Is he practicing on a rib eye until he gets a feel for the blade? (Ask anyone: good technique makes a world of difference!) Regardless of what he's up to, it's clear he's only biding his time before he makes quick work of himself. That is sheer professionalism. You think he wants some kitchen rookie, barely able to whip up a convincing gumbo, carving him when the time comes? Mais non!

He is a pro, but also, in the truest sense of the word, an amateur. He does what he does out of love. Oh, to chop meat! It brings up the sun in the morning! Cows, pigs, rabbits, frogs! As long as it was once alive, he'll chop it!

Down there in Broussard, Louisiana—just 60-some-odd miles west of Baton Rouge and 140 from the Big Easy—they like their pigs. Alive, if necessary. As in the chopping pig we see above. And over in south-central Louisiana, right by the sole of the Bayou Boot, they've got their own cultural touchstones. Which is why Ol' Choppy might be ringing a few bells about now. Take another look. See a resemblance? To another culinary professional who takes boundless joy in his craft?

A blind man can see the inspiration is Chef Paul Prudhomme. The cap, the neckerchief, the graceful knifesmanship. Uncanny.

(Chef Paul photo from chefpaul.com.)

Ballard's Farm

The best (that is to say, the worst) thing about this snappy image is what it implies. For even though no carnage is evident—the knives and blood, even the flames, are out of sight—something twisted lurks. Read on.

Represented here, we have both ends of the economic spectrum—Rural and Urban. Our protagonists are a son of the land and a son of capital. Yeoman and robber baron. Their presence serves to underscore one salient point:

The desire to be eaten is entirely uncontroversial. All pigs—no matter their station in life, no matter their daily concerns—look upon their eventual passage through the alimentary canal with unconstrained happiness. Perhaps this is true for all animals! Shout it to the heavens, this universal truth: To be is to be eaten. To be eaten is to be.

This has been ratified by the complete range of pigdom and can therefore no longer be denied!

(Thanks to Drs. Greg and Ashley for the referral.)

Pollo Feliz

El Pollo Feliz. The Happy Chicken. And why shouldn't he be happy? He's got a nice gig, welcoming people to a restaurant chain adored throughout Mexico! He is an ambassador of sorts, and the position suits him well. The jaunty comb, the carefree wattle... Everything about him speaks of a casual ease, healthy temperament, and thoughtful disposition.





But in the case of the Happy Chicken, as in many things, context is everything. Let's pull back a bit. Does this present a different view of El Happy? Does his nonchalance take on the flavor of barbarity?

Even with a roasted chicken splayed beside a dish of salsa picante, Happy Chicken flashes the thumbs-up! Nope, nothing unsavory here! That could be his sister, for all he knows—poor hermanita!—her skin baked to a crisp, her playful spirit extinguished forever. As you can see, Happy Chicken couldn't care less.

He has a job to do, a slogan to intone endlessly: muy sabroso, muy sabroso. Very flavorful, very flavorful. A cartoon in celebration of the chain's 31st anniversary has the director berating Happy for not being able to get this one line right. And so now! Now, he will get it right, dammit. He will shill tirelessly, he will not go off script! He knows his place! He will embody the Happy Chicken mission statement: No Hay Otro Mejor. There is nothing better.

Notice how the language barrier seems to vanish in a puff of chicken smoke. Animal degradation truly is a universal language. Like music and mathematics, mocking animals we plan on killing is something we can all understand. It is one thread in the Tapestry of Brotherhood.

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






Addendum: We debated getting into this. In the end, our professional duty compelled us to go forward. Here then is another, altogether disturbing image from the Pollo Feliz website. What to make of the dazed, and probably zonked-out lamb? The despondent piglet? What is happening in this adorable barnyard? And how in hell does this convince people to eat animals? Does it offer the possibility of saving these creatures from a disoriented, unhappy existence?








Addendum 2 (5/31/10): Pollo Feliz, meet Brazil's Porco Feliz. (Thanks to Dr. Deborah for the referral.)

Lambtown USA

The lamb. Symbol of innocence. Icon of vulnerability.

And now to that list let us add devotee of suicide.

He works and lives in Lambtown, USA. According to their website, this year's annual Lambtown USA Festival "will prove to be the best yet. A select group of food vendors will be on hand to make this year's Lambtown a huge success." A select group of vendors, yes, and one hard-working lamb.

More from the site:

A variety of food booths featuring assorted lamb plates and various ethnic dishes will be set up throughout the festival. Also, Superior Farms will be hosting their annual lamb-ribs barbecue—a crowd favorite! Lamb cooking demonstrations and the lamb cook-off will take place at North Jackson & B Streets in the heart of downtown Dixon.

(There will also be pony rides.)

And yet, even amid plans for ovine carnage of every description, the cute widdle lambykins jumps for joy! He bleats (and, later, bleeds) with glee! Is his smile the grin of oblivion, of innocence betrayed, or is he a sincere adherent to the Way of Self-Death?

Like it matters! There's lamb ribs to be had! Line 'em up!

While you're waiting for you order, you can practice caring for lambs with this stuffed facsimile, available through their website.

The Hog Master's

The key to understanding this is all in the eyes. Do they register pain? Panic? The horror of death's sickly onrush? Not quite. This victim's eyes express an altogether different wish: "More!" We are put in the role of the voyeur, made party to obscene play we are unable to comprehend.

No, it's worse. We become the surrogate of the hog's master and he our slave. (It's a relationship so dysfunctional, so sordid, that it makes the love affair of these two seem almost Doris Day-and-David Nivenish.) Merely by viewing the image, we take part in a reprehensible drama.

The white-hot flames tease and coax, the heat sears the pig's flesh, and still—still!—he shoots us a look of pure, giddy rapture. We haven't seen a pig with such an unveiled, crazy desire to suffer for a long time.



If merely viewing this scene can make us feel this filthy, what must it be like to have an affair catered by this outfit? One can only imagine, with shudders and dry heaves, what actual customers of the Hog Master's must feel. Are they like us? Do they respond with revulsion? Are they torn between the urge to retain psychiatric help for the pig and the need to flee the room with their own sanity intact?

There, to the left, is the reality behind the fantasy, the dirt beneath the glitz. Runaways, thrill-seekers, hedonists, take note. This could be your fate. This is what the pig craved, of course, and yet... And yet, the hands grasping and carving and knifing and taking! The exploitation inherent in the power play is too much. We try not to judge (just play along), to approach everyone's quirks and kinks with open mind and open heart, but we are unequal to the task when it comes to this sex- and death-positive pig.

On a different note, what is with Europe and her former (non-U.S.A.) colonies? (The Hog Master resides somewhere in the UK.) Who would have thought that America would fail to match them in brutality? When this was posted, the only 5-noose examples of suicide food were from beyond our shores.









Addendum (6/30/11): The mastered hog is back, this time being mastered by Juicy Pig Concessions.

TenderNova Flooring

Only someone who spends his days and nights poring over barbecue logos and butchers' blandishments could find this a refreshing change. For we are at least not reviewing another tired advertisement meant for the general public, to prompt and induce the gobblement of pigs and cows!

No, this is something new. And it has the whiff of mystery about it, exposing as it does the seldom-seen workings of the livestock industry.

This flooring-for-animals, this TenderNova, is, as advertised, multi-purpose. Its multiple purposes? "Farrowing, nursery, and finishing." In other words, this is a cradle-to-grave product. (Talk about brand loyalty!) Finishing, in case you're not familiar with the term, is just what it sounds like: finishing up the lives of livestock so that they may be finished off.

In a display of stunning doublethink, our anthropomorphic gentleman-pig touts the benefits of "the animal-friendly floor." (The product also features "excellent cleanability.") His endorsement is so winning that we might almost forget to feel disgust. (Almost.) For he is just like you: cheerful, enterprising, and—naturally—benevolent.

He epitomizes the American spirit!

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

Moo & Oink

No meat-based establishment has been brought to our attention more often than retail/wholesale meat giant Moo & Oink. (Their online store offers ready-to-eat chitterlings by the tub and Moo Doggy Beef Dinner Franks, so you know this is the Big Time.)

Apparently, Moo and Oink—the eponymous livestock employed by the chain—have enchanted viewers and eaters for years. (We don't understand it either.)


One secret of their success is undoubtedly the "catchy" "jingle" that figures so prominently in the advertisements. At the risk of starting a nasty rumor, the jingle just might be the final utterance of Moo and Oink as they are delivered to the Promised Land. The tune is not, well, melodious. Or pleasant. Or listenable. Are we hearing the last words of suffering creatures—the sum of the wisdom they impart to their survivors?

The chain has also bewitched audiences with slick commercial productions. One of them has been particularly popular. Although it is against our policy (or would be, if we had any policies) to provide a link to the commercial in question, here it is.

This blockbuster has it all: drama, glamor, and heart. (And chitlins, too.) But mostly this is a movie with a message. And that message is "Death isn't an end. It's only the beginning."

And the soundtrack! The highlight of the song is this poignant stanza:

Tommy likes ribs and chicken wings!
If you like it too, let me hear you scream!
(Moo and Oink!)
Wave for catfish!
(Moo and Oink!)
Scream for ribs!

Scream is right.

Apart from the lyrics and choreography, the most memorable element of the spectacle would have to be the scene of a Moo & Oink worker shoveling unidentifiable meat chunks into a big plastic bag like he's bailing out a sinking ship. The impression given is one of meat inundation—they just have to get the stuff out of there, and now! They are foundering in meat!

(Thanks to the Cast of Thousands for the referral.)

If you have trouble seeing the featured Moo & Oink movie: no thanks necessary.

Crabby Kents

We've got to hand it to the Crabby Kents (sic) crab. It takes a special kind of crustacean to participate so directly in his own death. This is one hands-on crab!

Not content merely to await death, or even meet it with verve by, say, jumping into the cauldron, this one grabs a mallet and gets ready to start swinging!

Yes, he does need to drink some courage first—by the looks of the shaky mug sloshing beer on the table, he's been at this a while—but let's not hold that against him. He is, still and all, remarkably calm and good-tempered, considering what's about to happen. (This must not be Crabby Kent. Then again, if Kent is the proprietor, how could he be crabby with such bold and twisted crabs in his employ?)

Maybe this one's excited at the prospect of killing others of his kind before turning the mallet on himself. Either way, we salute you, enthusiastically suicidal crab!

Love Maine Lobsters

From Down East comes a chilling technological innovation, a brand-new form of exploitation. Do not be misled by the friendly crustacean clutching a symbol of his love for you. For this is not a tale of love. But it is a tale of sacrifice. A sacrifice we have analyzed so thoroughly in these "pages" before. It is a tale of death, distorted and foul.

The "LOVE Maine Lobsters" image itself is benign. Yes, yes, one could easily imagine the lobster transformed into a plush, a plaything for the crib. Let's provide some context for ths loving and lovable lobster. The creature is shilling for a machine. A lobster-plucking machine. That you pay to play. $2 for 30 seconds of lobster-grabbing hilarity.

Typical suicidal food offers itself up for some basic purpose. The grinning pig, the sanguine cow from so many commercial announcements—at least they lunge at the knives with something comprehensible in mind. It is perverse, yes—so, so perverse!—but it is something that can be translated into an intelligible impulse. After a series of mental contortions (and maybe a great deal of alcohol and drunken prayers for a Better World), our search for meaning could even transmute these poor animals’ intentions into noble ones: They die that others may live. (Leave aside the dubious quality of the “food” under discussion, as well as the questionable need of the barbecue addict. And banish from your thoughts the inane horror of it all. We’re building to a point.) The point is this: Most suicide food is in service of a fundamental thing—sustenance.

But this! This is sacrifice for what? For “entertainment.” And here, the mechanical claw-style arcade “amusement” is so lamebrain it’s a double insult! The innocent lobster—he’s holding out his heart for you—happily risks a live boiling, all in the name of giving you 30 seconds of low-grade fun. This is a new nadir, even for the suicidefoodist. To think that a living thing would sell itself so cheaply. This is truly disheartening.

Can't we return to our previous Suicide Food utopia, where the animals cavorted and begged for the chance to be dispatched with dignity and precision, at least? Curse you, LOVE Maine Lobsters, for making the hell of traditional suicidefoodism seem sensible.

Roadhouse Steak and Ale

The dominant theme here is pride. A sinful, reckless pride. It acts like a contagion on this poor steer.

"Yes, of course you have a lot to be proud of—starting with those freakish horns." (Don't stare, and don't use the word phallic—you don't want to set him off.) "But really, sir, you have taken this too far."

Somehow, he manages to strut while standing still. Perhaps someone is overcompensating for an execrable self-image? He is overly concerned with gaining our approval. The legend above him, a desperate declaration of his value, screams Low Self-Esteem. Combine this with the slab of beef on the (pardon me) crowbar (?) and you've got an undeniable cry for help.

He poses in front of the prop corral fence, giving us the "thumbs"-up, the flames rising ever higher, and you can't help but wonder: Did it have to come to this? What if he had someone to talk to?

Even the most casual social critic will concede that the Roadhouse fosters a warped view of masculinity. Where worth is determined by palatability, we inherit a strange world indeed.

Sparks Street Mall Chicken-Rib Cook Off

We have now seen everything: 'Roid Rage as appetite stimulant. 1. See hyper-muscular pig. 2. Crave pork. It's practically mathematical in its simplicity!

Our body worshipping pig does take the insanity of suicidefoodism to new, absurd heights. Any old flabby pig or cow can gladly offer himself up to the grill—an undeniable honor!—but this one? This one has devoted years of his life to transforming himself into the perfect edible specimen of porcinity. The delts, the pecs, the obliques—pumping himself up has been his obvious obsession. He's buff and he's proud! Proud and... let's just say it: he's furious. The steroids have taken their toll.

The pop-eye, the grimace—this guy's beyond help. His identity is defined by his desirability as a food object. He taunts us with the trophies he's won, flaunting his superior texture and moisture content, the way the sauce complements his flavor. "Suck it, you weaklings! I am chiseled and cut! Grab a rib and start eating!"

Muscle Pig has certainly set a new standard of depravity.