Mae's Phinney Ridge Cafe

Mae's Phinney Ridge Café of Seattle should be proud to have such a devoted spokescow!

We know you don't require any pointers in the art of suicidefoodism analysis, but we thought this graphic might be too small. And so we took the liberty of highlighting all the menu items that might unsettle a normal (or simply less devoted) cow:

Hot Meat Loaf Sandwich, Chicken Fried Steak, Old-Fashioned Homemade Beef Stew, Cousin Ray's Chili Con Carne, and Mae's Famous Reuben (with corned beef).

And that's just lunch!

Reminiscent of the monstrous (and presumably all-powerful) pig of the Ye Olde Cherry Tree, Mae's cow has superpowers—see her flying to the rescue? And yet she does nothing to put an end to this madness! Instead, she stands four-square in defense of The System!

Can you read what the far-out cow is saying up there? It's precious in a suicidefoodistic way: "No Substitutions, Please." Could anything better encapsulate our message? Not only does the cow preside over the menu—overseeing the proceedings, as it were—but she will allow no deviation from the carefully planned carnage. The System will not be questioned!

We don't know whether this hippie cow is the same cow—and, truthfully, we don't care. Because whether Sunglasses, Superhero, and Cool-out are but manifestations of the One True Beef or three different characters in a cast of thousands, the fact remains that something wrong is going on. Then again, it's the same wrong something we've seen over and over again.

Bovril

This British mainstay—this pinnacle of cuisine—has been with us since 1870, when soldiers fighting for Napoleon III needed to keep up their strength in their campaigns against the filthy Prussians. Since then, Bovril brand cow glop has warmed the guts of WWI fighters battling for old Blighty, as well as British soccer hooligans.

Bovril was originally known as Johnston's Fluid Beef.

Fluid beef.

Fluid. Beef.

(Texas Pork Puff flashbacks! We're already cramping and seeing spots.)

That concludes the history lesson. Now let's see what we can see.

A confident cow leans from her spacious home-on-the-rails—no cattle car for her!—and asks the first human she sees whether she could make a directed donation. That is, to designate the final disposition of her earthly remains. Of course she's on her way to slaughter, but the honor of winding up in a jar of Bovril would go a long way to easing the last leg of her life's journey.

Remember, she's not looking to be spared. She's not offering her plow-pulling services, or even volunteering to be impregnated and milked for years to come. No, she just wants to die for a worthy cause. In this case, the Bovril Company's bottom line. It's practically an instinct!

It's hard to imagine that this advertisement was nearly so successful. In it, we see two prisoners passing the grim news along the "jailhouse telegraph" that the Bovril Company is planning a raid.

(Thanks to Dr. ZezozeceGlutz for the referral.)















Addendum: At one point—due to concerns about Mad Cow Disease—Bovril changed its recipe. For two stagnant, arid years, Bovril was composed solely of plant products. When the EU at long last lifted its ban on British beef in 2006, Bovril reverted to its previous recipe, consisting primarily of cattle on a long waiting list.

Bait: Suicide Food-by-Proxy

It's a brand-new category of perplexing suicidefoodist imagery. Or rather, we have only recently been made aware of it. It offers us fresh worlds of puzzlement. For these are not animals jockeying for a spot on our plates. No, their sites are a little lower. Still, while their ambitions are not so grand, their passions burn just as bright.












We admire these lowly creatures. Just think about it: so eager to start at the bottom—beneath the bottom!—they will even sign up to become food for food! In the world of suicide food, the instinct to be eaten is as strong as the desire to live is among actual animals. And these things don't care who or what eats them, as long as their death is assured.







This topic also introduces us to the single most freaky-deaky image we've uncovered so far, possibly the freaky-deakiest thing in the entire suicide food canon. It took all of our willpower to resist leading with this one, but our dedication to craft won out. So now, to forever scar your psyches and corrode your souls with infinite doubt in the universe's fundamental goodness, we give you… the buxom bait-leech.

What dreams foul the slumber of the suicidefoodists? What demons drive them? What could account for this abomination, this lipsticked, buttocked leech destined to be man's food-once-removed? What to make of quote-sweetest-unquote? Are we being reminded that leeches aren't for us to consume directly? Is the implication that the sexy bloodsucker is so "sweet" she'll really "take care of us," if you know what they mean? (Nudge, nudge.)

Where is the mind strong enough to withstand such questions?

(Thanks to Dr. Nadia for the vending machine photo and to Dr. Ribozlifozelek for the "Live Bait Sold Here" photo.)

Cy-Fair Houston Chamber of Congress

The Chamber of Congress of the Cypress Fairbanks region (the Houston metro area) hosts an annual event known as the Chamber Herd. As near as we can figure, "young people" raise animals, then the Chamber buys them and passes the meat (their website carefully points out that it is "processed" meat—no whole carcasses rotting in the sun for these folks!) on to "local ministries."

Well, sure. It all sounds above-board.

The bovines in the graphic could be loving caricatures of actual members of the Cy-Fair Houston Chamber of Commerce (CFHCC). They're just so specific, so reflective of the individuality suicidefoodists like to say is uniquely human.

The bull on the left—doesn't he remind you of your old boss, the one who would occasionally make the tamest dirty jokes using that splendidly courtly language? The longhorn in the center is a dead-ringer for your father-in-law—that guy can be a little… particular, but he'd lend you his last dollar. And surely you recognize the cow on the right—it's your grad school mentor. Always talking department politics, and with that wicked sense of humor!

We've seen Ironic Aggressor Sublimation before—it's a theme we find fascinating—but the CFHCC has taken it to a new and disquieting place. Why would they wish to 1) individuate animals who are treated as nothing more than commodities to be auctioned off to the highest bidder, or 2) identify with chattel by presenting it as not so different from themselves? (They're all just members of the herd, after all!)

And while we're asking questions, why are the cowboy boots wearing hats?

Piggy's Restaurant

In the endless suicidefoodist "arms race," we've seen it all: cute animals, tough animals, insane animals, stupid animals, complicit animals, surrogate animals, and animals clothed in the garb of prestige. And while we've also seen animals purported to have controlling interests in the establishments they represent (My Daughter's Place Steakhouse might belong on this list), this might be the first time we've seen the "food" animal presented as the actual namesake and owner.

Which brings us to Piggy's. How to explain this? Pig with an abiding love of the hospitality industry or shrewd attempt to neutralize criticism?

Whatever goes on here, make no mistake: Piggy's in charge. (We think he's the one in the middle. And, by the way, we like to call the trio Ham, Scrapple, and Pork.) It's his place. His name is on the sign. And Piggy knows which side his bread is buttered on. If pigs have to die to fill the tables, if he has to die to fill the tables, bring it on!







Addendum: It's not just ham, bacon, and pulled pork, either. It's also T-shirts!

Foie Gras Neckwear

We admit it. We are intrigued and impressed by the brazenness of these logos.

Foie gras is one of the Pillars of the Cruel Food Temple (the other is veal), and these logos only half-heartedly attempt to whitewash the cruel food truth. Yes, of course, like all suicide food, they depict animals satisfied with, and possibly proud of, their lot in life. That is, the fact that their lot in life can only be experienced in death.

The finger-in-your-eye aspect of these logos, the element that brings them together and lifts them from the swamp of suicide food mediocrity, is the neckwear, those three jaunty bow ties.

Imagine you are a foie gras artisan. (Don't worry—you can take a shower after this exercise.) What is the one thing you would like to draw your customers' attention from? It's the long, elegant neck of your fowl, isn't it, with all its—shall we say—symbolism? (The force-feeding and everything.) Surely, you are sensitive about this touchy subject and would prefer that the consumer not be reminded of that tube jammed down the ducks' and geese's long, elegant throats.

But the good people of La Campagnoise, La Ferme du Grand Chêne, and Ernest Soulard face their potential P.R. problem head-on, unflinchingly. Talk about turning lemons into lemonade! By highlighting the very heart of the controversy, they manage to turn force-fed and butchered birds into suicidefoodist, um… lemonade!






Addendum: Ever wanted to know how to de-vein foie gras? Us neither!

Westland/Hallmark Meat Company

Torn from the headlines! (Like this one and this one.) It's the timeliest Suicide Food post ever!

The recap: Undercover video reveals horrid practices in a California meat-processing plant. So-called downer cows are crammed into the nation's beef supply, dragged there by chains, carried in by forklift. (Downer cows are cows that are too sick to walk, possibly due to mad cow disease.) A nation that had managed not to pay attention to the million-plus warnings and observations about the hell that is factory farming was appalled. (This is not an easily appalled nation! Be proud, America!) The largest beef recall in U.S. history is undertaken. School cafeterias suspend the sale of beef.

Although it failed to make the headlines, the reviled Westland/Hallmark Meat Company also sports suicide food. Do you see it, there, in the upper left-hand corner of the Los Angeles Times photo, above?




Everything makes sense now, doesn't it? Seeing that suit-wearing cow on the Hallmark sign is like detecting something off about a criminal in a post-office flier. The cold eyes of the killer, the smirk of the swindler. We are relieved to see the inner deformity made visible.

Of course, this imagery is a mass of conflicting tropes: the suit denotes authority—the cool objectivity of the businessman—while the halter and the ring through the nose denote subservience. And the whoop-de-doo index finger symbolizes sarcasm. Put them all together, and you end up with—what else?—an animal cruelty/dangerous food juggernaut!



(Thanks to Dr. Drew for the referral and to Dr. Bea for the Hallmark logo image.)

Ye Olde Cherry Tree

The practitioners of suicidefoodism are cunning fabulists, conjuring fantastical worlds of illogic as a matter of course. Their every "truth" is a falsehood. Deception is their bones and viscera bread and butter. The very basis of their movement is self-contradictory, absurd on its face. So this image should hardly surprise us. Even so, it is exciting in its ridiculosity.

A monstrous pig, 20 feet at the shoulder, looms over the Ye Olde Cherry Tree. He could crush it with one blow. He could end the traditional hog roast there in the blink of an angry eye. Crash! This is for your tradition! Smash! This is for your love of dead pigs!

But no. He doesn't. In the world of suicide food, even a gargantuan pig is happy with his lot, satisfied that he lives only to die.

The cryptic glyph above Pigoliath's head might indicate that he has been enjoying his own beer festival out back. Is that what transformed a rampaging abomination into a willing victim?

The Story of a Steak

Gather 'round, idiot children! I'm about to tell you the dumbest story you ever heard. This is going to make Jack and the Beanstalk look like Anna Karenina. Grab your forks and let's read this thing.

"Chapter 1. This calf was born on a Texas ranch. Several acres of grazing land are required to support each cow and calf."

Okay, this part's not all that stupid. Just wait.

"Chapter 2. As a yearling, the calf was sold to an Iowa farmer for 'finishing.' Proper feeding of corn and protein supplements adds many extra pounds and a lot of extra eating quality to our beef."

You see what they did there? First it was "calf." Then "yearling." But then they slipped and called him "beef." And look at that dumb cow grinning! What's he got to be happy about? They're finishing him! Keep growing, dummy.

"Chapter 3. After several months in the feed lot, our calf, now a full-grown steer, was sent by rail or truck to the stockyards and assigned to a marketing firm for sale."

Assigned to a marketing firm? Oh, brother! He's practically a member of the family! Keep quiet, kids, or maybe we'll assign you to a marketing firm.

"Chapter 4. Buyers for several local and out-of-town meat packing companies put in bids based on the going consumer price of beef. This steer was one of a carload bought by an Ohio meat packing company."

Ol' Stupid is still grinning like a dope! Doesn't take much, huh? Fella, they looked you over and paid the going rate. Nothing they wouldn't do for any consumer goods.

"Chapter 5. At the packing plant, the 'beef crew' turned beef on the hoof into meat for the stores. Beef was inspected, chilled and graded, prepared for shipment."

Turned beef into meat! That beef crew is a real bunch of wizards! You don't need a magic wand for that trick. Just takes a big knife and a strong stomach. I can't tell—is the cow still smiling? (And now they're just calling him Beef, like that's the dummy's name.)

"Chapter 6. Under refrigeration, the quarters of beef were shipped to New York's wholesale meat district — 1500 miles from Texas, where the calf was born."

It's an all-expenses-paid trip! See America from the back of a refrigerated truck.

"Chapter 7. Owner of a Brooklyn meat market, after comparing prices and quality, selected a quarter of our steer."

The owner loves the steer. Just not in that way. The other way.

"Chapter 8. In the store, a quarter of beef was turned into steaks, roasts, stew and hamburger; was displayed for customer's selection competing with other meats."

I think they mean the dead cow was competing, not the customer. But I wouldn't put that past them.

"Chapter 9. Yesterday, a housewife looked over everything in the counter, compared values, decided on steak, porterhouse or chopped, depending on what she wanted to spend."

The End!

Hey, look! The butcher's got the cow's smile now! That's the circle of life, kids. Now help me with the lighter fluid and let's get supper started.

(Thanks to Dr. Anencephalic for the referral.)

Krekenavos Agrofirma

Rejoice, Lithuania, rejoice! For your pigs (or, as we like to think of them, living pork containers) are enraptured with you! At the thought of being murdered, carved, and fried, ground, or sausaged for you, they prance! They leap! They delight in life's unasked-for gifts!

Let other nations—backward lands—exploit gloomy pigs! Lithuania will champion the happy pig, the grateful pig, the joyous pig! Lithuania will give him a platform from which to propound his philosophy: Today is a good day to die!



"… kai norisi mésos…" the legend tells us. "… when you want some meat…"

This kiosk manages an impressive two-fer: not content with disparaging pigs as merely pre-food, it also equates women with meat! See how the red dress morphs into the salad-and-sausage? And how about that double entendre! When you want some meat, indeed! It's as though, once the objectification starts, it takes on a life of its own.


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

Divine Bovine Gourmet Beef Jerky

The symbolism is just… off.

The cow has obviously dressed for her portrait. Unless she typically wears formal dress, this is no candid shot. (We will ignore the question of why she's in bull drag.)

But since when do a tuxedo jacket and bow tie stand for divinity? Sack cloth, vestments, a humble monastic robe. Sure, these would ably convey the necessary piety. Even a leisure suit might connote a certain evangelical brand of religiosity. What we see here is not so much humility, but opportunism. Nor does the Midwestern brand of sophisticated style communicate gourmet. We are left to wonder what's going on.

What we know: a cow who is neither divine nor gourmet is going to great lengths to convince you that she is both, and that, therefore, she deserves to be eaten, that the jerky made from her flesh is, in fact, "terrific." We're not even convinced that she is a she!

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