Alabama BBQ Company

Barbecue as dramatized by Quentin Tarantino.

A dazed cow, a chicken stunned into paralysis, and that pig. The ringleader. (It's always the pig!) He's drugged, no doubt, but only because dosing himself with downers was the only way he could follow through on his ghoulish plot. His resolve is measured by the benzo—long practice has shown him how many for how far down.

And so, here is our standard barbecue threesome. (Notice how the chicken is the least comfortable of the bunch.) We don't know—we don't want to know!—how the pig engineered it, but it's all coming together. He will go calmly to the Great Beyond—barbiturates are like prayers for all the comfort they provide. His "friends," however... His friends must be dragged there, led by nose and beak into death.

Again—again!—we want only to understand how dreck like this can possibly attract customers! We assume, owing to its ubiquity, that it must. But how? Our ignorance is exhausting, even to ourselves. Are we too innocent to understand the engine at the center of all this, the exploitable flaws in the human mind, the minutiae of the service industry? Whatever the reason for our ignorance, ignorant we are. Time and again, we look on this visual garbage and are baffled. For here: animals, lashed together like hostages in a home invasion, plunked into the barbecue, where they can contemplate their own excruciating deaths. And this... appeals to people.

The Pig Roaster

Dishonesty is inherent in all suicidefoodist iconography. That is its bedrock. "The animals approve of your intentions," the suicide food proponent purrs. "Actually, the whole thing was their idea all along. You wouldn't want to cause offense by not eating them, would you?"

But this takes dishonesty in a brand-new direction and runs with it.

The pig is relaxing, enjoying the tropical setting, feeling no pain and having no worries, mon. The bounty of the tropics heaps itself around him. But it's more than that. The subliminal suggestion is that this pig is roasting all by himself. The sun is gently warming him. There's no need for us to intervene. This is nature we're talking about. Who are we to question it? Only a mean old crank would have a problem with this. Do you scold the sun for shining? Rail against the snows for freezing?

Join the natural order and embrace the consumption of pigs! This is life unfolding, the wondrous spectacle of planet Earth! Deny it no longer! The universe aligns itself to ratify your appetites! Only a fool would turn his back!

All of which renders this "After" image, from the same website, as nothing more than the punchline to a sick cosmic joke.








Addendum: The style of this logo might indeed look familiar. Other work by its creator has been featured here before.

Steamboat Bill's

Toot toot! Here comes Steamboat Bill on the shipshape S. S. Suicidefood! With a friendly clack, he waves his claw at the well-wishers lining the riverbank, face tendrils (?) flapping gaily like pennants.

The imagery is routine, but the subtext is ghoulish as ever. Our happy hero, loving life from the helm of his adorable tub, is steering her right into the cooking pot. There, as the paddlewheel churns helplessly, he'll consign himself to Davy Jones's locker to be "boiled with pride" (as Steamboat Bill's website puts it).

"Permission to come aboard, Cap’n?"

Granted! (Toot toot!)

"Permission to boil you and the crew alive, Cap’n?"

Darn tootin’!

"Permission to tear you apart and suck the meat from your glistening carapace?"

Sho nuff!

We're denied even the opportunity to deliver the poor crawfish from a miserable existence. No, we're encouraged to take him at his fullest, when his life is smooth sailing!

If you doubt the grisly undertone of the action—and, really, how could anyone past the age of majority doubt what the proponents of suicidefoodism have declared so vigorously for so long?—behold this T-shirt design offered in the official Steamboat Bill's catalogue:

Pinch Me, Peel Me, Eat Me. There, in six words, is the fundamental theme of the suicide food worldview, along with the concomitant sexual connotations. Oh, suicidefoodists! Clean up your act!

Uncle Sam's Barbecue

Happy birthday, America, you great big meat-eating country, you!

What finer icon for such a greedy, gluttonous land than this chubby, pink fellow! Natty in his vest and tie—not to mention his Southern Colonel beard—he is dapper, yet full of fellow feeling for his countrymen!

And service! The pig is all about service. Sacrifice for your brothers, the sanctity of duty. He's a recruitment poster come to life. And what of this recruitment? "I Want You." Whom does he recruit? How should we complete the elliptical slogan "I Want You"? He wants whom, for what purpose? To what end? And for what campaign?

To whom should we direct our allegiance? Just tell us "jump," and we're in the air. You have only to say the word!

The answer is simple and stark. He urges his fellow pigs, encouraging them to add their lives to the sacrificed millions. Join the ranks of the devoured! Grill fodder is a noble occupation! To the spits, lads!

And! And! He addresses us too. For we have our own heroic part to play in the American drama: Uncle Pig needs us to line up and eat! Eat! Lest the sacrifice of those innumerable, courageous pigs be in vain.

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

Fatty Patty's

Patty embodies both the corporeal and the ethereal. She is a winged and haloed spirit, beyond the struggles shared by all flesh and blood, and yet she is “fat.” How can a phantom be formless and corpulent? How can she be no more, and yet still be counted as the "one and only"? Such are the paradoxes of suicide food. Adherents let their faith buoy them amid the contradictory currents. The hopelessly rational can only wonder.

A nagging doubt we outsiders surely feel: How can this childlike coquette—another paradox!—possibly make anyone crave the products of deceased pigs? How?

Perhaps Fatty Patty’s own words can shed light on the matter:

Weclome (sic) to the One and Only Fatty Patty's!
We are well known for huge portions of food, including our Super Large Oversized Portion of hashbrowns, ham, tomatoes, green peppers and onions, topped with cheese and smothered in sausage gravy.

Super. Large. Oversized. Could it be the sheer volume of pork—the ungodly meaty bulk—that clouds judgment and inhibits thoughtful behavior?

As if to supply evidence for our suspicions, a satisfied patron on a dining-out-and-about forum enthuses about Patty's:

The bugars (sic) are fantastic... Everthing (sic) was a heafty (sic) portion!!

Clearly, Fatty Patty exerts some dark influence on the minds of mankind. Only theologians are qualified to make sense of our cherubic Svengali.

One further question remains: how did Patty die? Was it obesity-related? Or was it, as we all suspect, by her own hand? Whatever the cause, she taunts us and tortures us and smothers our thoughts in a heafty (sic) portion of gravy until we cannot think straight.







Addendum (3/07/09): Look! Patty's back. But, judging by the look in the sausage maker's eye, not for long.












Addendum 2 (4/16/09): And here she is again. (With her twin?) Patty gets around!

20th Annual Cedar Rapids BBQ Roundup

And now we return to the nauseating phantasmagoria that is the modern barbecue festival!

Our last festival sight-seeing tour took us to Memphis. This time around, it's Cedar Rapids, jewel of East Central Iowa.

From what we have been able to determine, a barbecue festival is a nation within a nation. And the official state religion of suicidefoodistan sanctions—nay!—mandates an all-encompassing belief in the redemptive power of animals just asking for it.

First up: this bizarre rechanneling of patriotic fervor into fevered carnivory. (Are they really so far removed, those two sacred impulses?) The message here has become garbled, buried under the insistent rumple of Old Glory, but it might go something like this: “I am an American pig. I am angry. I have such contempt for the lower nations of the world that I flaunt my willingness to eat myself and the members of my family. I taste like… freedom!”



The colonel stars in an equally mysterious scenario. After much discussion we have come to the conclusion that some filthy do-gooder has attempted to drag the kiln-baked colonel from the oven, but he is having none of it. See the grooves his trotters carve in the floor? He wants to stay in that oven. He needs to reach the desired temperature.









The other imagery is straightforward. For instance, this rib-brandishing chef. He is, of course, a mainstay of suicide food, down to the chef hat and the bandanna of the damned. Raise that platter high, you shining symbol of suicidefoodism’s sour promise! (Not to mention misplaced apostrophes. Finger lick'in (sic) good, indeed.)










This lantern-jawed fellow takes his own succulence very seriously. The whole of Chi-Town can go up in flames all over again, and he won't mind—as long as you cast a hungry eye in his direction. Really, his pride is practically sinful.






Our Cedar Rapids travelogue ends with this puzzling signage. A scampering boar requests that you vote for him and acknowledge his suitability as a foodstuff. Fair enough. This is standard, by-the-book suicide food behavior. It's the policeman pig trucking off a load of piglets that is novel and troubling. What have the wee ones done? Were they not delicious enough? Is that their crime?


(Thanks to Dr. Jason for the referral and the photos.)







Addendum: You should know that the 20th Annual CRBBQR featured more entertainment than animals thoughtfully ushered into the afterlife. Music abounded too, provided by the likes of the Boogie Woogers, Large Midgets, and Obsidian's Dream. (There was even a booth from Veridian Credit!)

Light It Up BBQ

We look on this scene and are abashed. All this time, all these images recorded, catalogued, and discussed, and we never stopped to consider the origins of suicide food's suicidal tendencies. We just assumed that these poor creatures were hit with the Crazy Hammer one day—pow!—and that was that. After all, hopping into the fire looked to be the easiest and most natural thing in the world. For some, at any rate.

Now we see! It is not always so. And oh, the short shrift we have given these animals. Perhaps more effort is involved than we ever suspected. Or, it is true, more than we ever took the time even to consider.

This effete (and almost intolerably crudely rendered) pig presents the perfect example. There is, we now see, a science to self-immolation. An art! (Who cares that the title of his book is printed on the back cover instead of the front? Perhaps the book is in Japanese. Or Hebrew. And what's it to you, anyway? Where's your feeling, your gratitude?)

Regardless, the pig, like all suicidal food—whether innately warped, self-taught, or bookish—takes his work seriously. He will master this. He will sacrifice himself for the "greater good." Even if—especially if—it kills him.






Addendum: During our research, we happened upon this strikingly similar image. We don't pretend to be well schooled in the field of intellectual property, but we found it noteworthy.

Chili Head Barbeque Co.

We must confess that we first assumed this was an elaborate hoax. An image this aggressively tasteless could never have come about through a sincere effort to do good in the world. We concede our error.

Take a moment to study the image in detail. Your attention will be rewarded. (If making your gorge rise can be called a reward.)

The sow in her bra and Daisy Dukes struts beneath the legend "Join us for a down & dirty good time!" And then, beside her bosoms, appears the name of the event: Racks for Racks. Still trying to parse it? The proceeds from this event—whatever it is, exactly—are earmarked for the Susan G. Komen Foundation.

To sum up: 1. A lewd pig line-dances to promote an event featuring the consumption of dead pigs. (So far, this is nothing more than basic suicide food business.) 2. Parts of the dead pigs are equated with parts of women, rack for rack. 3. The (human) "racks" in question are those belonging to survivors of breast cancer. (Are we the only ones reeling from the sucker-punch of insensitivity?)


And then of course, there is the wrongheaded connection between barbecue and the support of breast cancer research, as well as the salvation of breast cancer survivors.

According to cancer.gov:

[C]ooking certain meats at high temperatures creates chemicals that… may increase cancer risk. For example, heterocyclic amines are the carcinogenic chemicals formed from the cooking of muscle meats such as… pork…. [A]n increased risk of… breast cancer is associated with high intakes of… barbequed meats.

How far astray the Chili Head Barbeque Co. has gone. If only they had stuck with their inoffensive anthropomorphic chili pepper mascot.

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

Bucksnort Resort

You say you need the consent of the animal you plan on shooting dead? The Bucksnort Resort has you covered! (No, not covered in the sense of "protected from being fired upon." That would be silly.)

The deer is giving you his permission, by means of the internationally recognized thumbs-up.

(We're aware that deer do not commonly have actual hands. But... white gloves? Does that convey the proper outdoorsman spirit?)

But more than acquiesence, he's giving you his approval. That sporty wink seems to say, "You got the right idea, Jack! Take your best shot!" Shooting this fine ten-pointer requires only a steady hand and the continually burning need to prove one's shaky manhood. The universe has given the go-ahead. Nothing's holding you back, you lovers of nature, you maintainers of ecological balance, you!

Understand: the buck is not merely a symbol of the wilderness you might experience at the Bucksnort. He is presented explicitly as prey and thus a potent ambassador from the rough and ready land of suicide food.


Regrettably, the resort's website neglects to anthropomorphize the other prey to be found at Clam Lake. We must make do only with photographic representations of the easy marks:





Can't you just imagine how effective a cartoonified version of that bear could be, his lolling head propped up in death? Such a missed opportunity! To have Ol' Droopy Bear and Gaspy the Fish welcoming one and all to share in the resort's hospitality.

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

Georgia Barbecue Classic

The simplicity is charming, huh?

He's got his knife and fork. He's smiling. He's in the barbecue. This guy is taking no chances. His worst fear is that he'll still be unconsumed when the barbecue fest is over. Somehow, the devouring hordes missed him in 2006. Not this year!

He is suicidefoodism's equivalent of the New Year's baby. Instead of a sash, he's got his heap of glowing coals. Instead of sharing cheerful wishes for a healthy and prosperous new year, it's heartfelt wishes to be eaten and digested.

"Afternoon," he drawls—and you can hear the red hills of Georgia in his voice. "I'd be obliged if you'd goose up the heat for me just a bit."

Eat, eat! He really doesn't mind. See? For God's sake, he has set up shop in the barbecue!

The pig's downhome savoir-faire and Red Top Mountain graciousness give you license to kill, grill, and eat your fill. And isn't that what suicide food in general and the institution known as the barbecue festival in particular are all about?

The chance to be among your fellows, gnawing as many parts off as many of God's creatures as you can manage in the festival's few golden hours (37 1/2 hours in the case of the Georgia Barbecue Classic).

Please, for the pig. Eat. It's the least you can do.