Jonny B's Backyard Bar-B-Que

Another in the storied series of "funny"-because-they're-so-literal images! (Remember this one? And what about this one?)

The motto of Jonny B's Backyard Bar-B-Que—Get completely sauced!—provides the opportunity to go a little crazy.

See? The pig is actually, literally getting sauced. Completely sauced. He's sitting in a tub of barbecue sauce! And scrubbing himself with a bath brush! (A not-altogether appealing scenario, you will agree.)

To underscore the double entendre, we have the pig downing bottle after bottle (of barbecue sauce). Into the tub. With him. And he has a decidedly drunk look on his big, fleshy face. Sauced, on the sauce… Same difference.

Apart from the cerebral good time the image affords us, we're left with the same questions and concerns: Namely, what the heck is going on here? The pig gives the impression of understanding what he's getting himself into. But why does he do it? What draws him? What drives him?

And while we're being contrary, we must question the choice of a bathtub as the central element. A bathtub? In the backyard?

Pigs Gone Wild

Finally, barbecue for fans of debauchery and voyeurism! Yes, there was this classic exemplar of the form, but Pigs Gone Wild has added a touch of realism that elevates (or, you know, lowers) matters to a new level!

They give us the truth, the real suburban-kids-set-loose-on-Spring-Break stuff: the empties on the pavement, the camcorder, even the slutty sow's tan lines! They have really thought this thing through!

Considering that most competitive barbecuers (we can't tell you how strange that phrase still seems to us) are men older than, oh, 30, we find this perplexing and nervous-making. Don't these barbecuing fellas have children? And if so, doesn't it stand to reason that some of them have, you know, girl children? Aren't scenes like the one immortalized in this logo the stuff of paternal nightmare? Daddy's little girl led astray by some beery pervert with a video camera and a pocketful of roofies?

But they slap the tableau on T-shirts and signs and what-not, choosing to identify with… Well, with the leering videographer, one supposes.

What this has to do with barbecue—apart from the standard marriage of sex and violence—we cannot imagine.

This almost reads as an advertising message targeted at the pigs themselves. Be wild! You deserve to let loose. Don't listen to those old pigs who warn you away from the grill. Get yourself cooked! It's the biggest thrill there is!







Addendum (7/28/08): What is it with barbecuers (in this case, the folks at Hogs Gone Wild)? They see dead pigs sizzling on the grill and their minds go straight to the gutter. (Thanks to Dr. William for the photo.)

Ma & Pa's Kettle

They were the perfect neighbors.

(Shot of Pa, tinkering with the engine of an old pickup.)

Pa: Try 'er now!

They wouldn't hurt a fly.

(Shot of young woman with tears in her eyes, looking at Ma.)

Young woman: You're the granny I never had.

But underneath the smiles…

(Shot of Ma and Pa gazing at one another beatifically.)

Past the rocking chairs…

(Shot of Ma and Pa rocking in the yard.)

They had a secret.

(Shot of a door slamming.)

An ugly secret.

(Shot of a bloody cleaver coming down.)

Off-camera: Nooo!

"Ma & Pa's Kettle."

Can you stomach… what's in Ma and Pa's kettle?

(Shot of Ma poised over the cauldron with a ladle.)

Ma: Who's ready for seconds?

(Quick montage of screaming, fleeing livestock.)


Coming this summer to a theater near you. Under 18 not admitted without parent or guardian.

Madson Meat

We can hear you now.

"What's happened to the hard-working team at suicidefood.blogspot.com? What quarrel do they have with this picture? It isn't in poor taste. No large-breasted sow shakes her moneymaker. No chicken grins as the hatchet falls. No cow peddles her own seared flesh. No blood, no tears! Nothing but an adorable little pig, proud as brass buttons!"

Yes, precisely! And that makes it one of the most chilling things we've seen in a long time. It's the G-rated nature that renders the affair so macabre!

There he sits on his banana leaf (?), the epitome of the trusting innocent. Whatever his masters have in mind, it's all right by him.

That he—this handsome, perky little fella—could still be killed, carved up, and grilled… That good ol' Prince or Duke or Puddles—for surely he was loved enough to have a name—should be betrayed in such a manner…

We are shaken, friends.

And ask yourselves this: Does Puddles wish to die merely as a means of pleasing his people? Does he know what is in store for him? And what exactly is in store for him? These additional images from the Madson Meat website tell the tale, as if you needed it told:

















Addendum (6/04/09): And here's our little friend on a jaunt to Berlin! (Thanks to Dr. CSB for the referral and photo.)

2007 Kodiak Crab Fest

You'll pardon us for reporting so late on the 2007 crab fest. Mail service from Kodiak, Alaska, is often spotty.

The symbol of last year's Kodiak Crab Fest knows a good time when he sees one. And if it involves getting dunked in boiling water and having his legs wrenched from his body, so be it! All's fair in love and war… And fun!

Kodiak J. Crab's motto might be "It's Just Fun!" but his #1 rule for living is "No Hard Feelings!"

His ability to absolve his, uh, boilers is commendable. And thoroughly craven.







Addendum: Another creature with a peculiar sense of fun. (It's the Lee Turkey Farm turkey of East Windsor, New Jersey!) Whatever else one could say about him, he sure is easy to please! To be charitable, there really is only one word ("everyone") on his placard that gives us pause. Still, that's a 75%. A gentleman's "C." Certainly life on the farm isn't "fun" for, well, everyone.

Little Redi

Little Redi is only the third youth-oriented chicken-related mascot we've profiled here. (The first was Rocky Junior, the second Zax.) Good point: this is hardly a write-home-able distinction. But Redi is the first youth-oriented, nuggetized chicken-related mascot we've profiled. Stand tall, Redi! For you are an ambassador for all undead suicide food.

The undead phenomenon is familiar to you, isn't it, thoughtful reader? These are the burgers, chops, and franks—and now, thanks to Redi, nuggets—who linger even after death. One meager life as an animal devoted to the glorious proposition that it lived merely to die for humans was never enough! And so, they rise, to be dominated and consumed in a new (in this case nuggetitious) form. Somehow, they rewrite the foundational laws of life to be reborn, casting off death like it was an oversized basketball shoe.

If only they could die twice! Ten times! An uncounted multitude of lives pledged to insatiable carnivores! This is the fantasy of every undead "food" animal.

Haltingly, they stalk food courts, the frozen food aisles of the world's grocery stores, and neighborhood barbecue joints in search of those who would devour them.

Haltingly? Did we say haltingly?

Bah! Look on Redi here. Remember, he is brimming with youth's promise! He is sportiness incarnate, bold and beautiful

Whatever the scene—"when you want great tasting appetizers or meals"—he is ready! In his haste, his sheer, youthful, go-getter readiness, he has left his shoelaces untied. Even his ball cap is worn erroneously. All of his considerable energy goes to getting himself cooked and eaten!

Professor Fish

Pontificating from his ivory tower, Professor Fish typifies those big city academics who deign to tell us peons how to life, what to believe, who to be.

Oh, and it's not just fish! No, no, it's also pigs and cows!

With their noses in books and their heads in the clouds, these brainiacs are utterly divorced from the real world. The world we actually inhabit.

Of course, this appeal to authority has as its goal the subversion of critical thinking: If the best and brightest among us, those whose lives are dedicated to the discovery and transmission of knowledge, if they say it is so, it must be worth attending to.

But talk about absent-minded professors! Even those who never made it past 8th grade can identify a flaw in the good professor's theory. As he stands beside his thesis—flower of his intellect—we see a tiny little contradiction. Eat fish and, therefore, live longer. But for the fish, the simple proposition is refuted. When you eat fish, the fish do not, of course, live longer. They live no longer.

Not exactly a tenure track.

(Thanks to Dr. Portigal for the photo.)







Addendum: We are actively seeking other faculty members of Suicidal Animal departments from halls of higher learning around the globe. Especially any examples other than fish, pigs, and cows.

Pork N More

In the "proud" tradition of this thoughtful pig and chicken comes Pork N More. He's the latest in our "celebration" of complicit animals.

Unwilling, incapable of doing anything halfway, they require their human overlords to do nothing more than open their mouths and chew. (At this moment, in the labs of the Complicit Animals Institute, animals are attempting to devise self-chewing meat. Look for it around 2011.)

All natural impulses have been bred (or punished?) out of them. They neither flee nor fight. Not even will they cringe as the bolt gun is steadied against their temples.

Their response to the carnage around them is one familiar to all students of suicidefoodism: they grab the keys and bring the grill to you!

So there he stands, our good ol' N (as his hat identifies him), a sinister wink playing across his twisted features, as the flesh of his fellows sizzles on his "portable custom woodfired BBQ."






Addendum: In the interest of full disclosure, the scoring committee admits that the low quality of the image earned Pork N More its third noose.

Springer Mountain Farms Jingle Contest

Banjo Chicken provides the perfect opportunity to examine the so-called Happy Meat movement. This school of thought is suicidefoodism's more scholarly sister.

"All vegetable diet!" boasts their website. "Antibiotic FREE! Free farmed! Environmentally focused!"

See? This is a paradise for chickens! Much better than the bare-bones, three-hots-and-a-cot conditions most poultry prison inmates endure.

Why, things are so good at Springer Mountain that Banjo here wants to sing about it! He wants to encourage others to sing about it. He wants a catchy jingle to come out of all this, so that a steady stream of customers will insure that plenty of chickens get to enjoy Springer Mountain's hospitality and responsible stewardship of our Earth and all her corn-pecking children!

Which is all just another way of saying that this makes no sense whatsoever.

(Did we mention that the winning jingle will earn its composer a year's "supply" of Springer Mountain chicken meat?)

Smokin' Jim's

What Smokin' Jim won't sell! Chicken, steak, ribs, pork sandwiches! He'll even sell garlic bread (and salad?), of all things!

Still! With range like that, and a plethora of deals and levels of customization, Jim still feels the need to resort to the suicidefoodist's basest attraction. We are speaking, of course—and it pains us to bring up this subject yet again—of the seductive sow. To see her there, posing in front of her House of Vice, this lady of easy virtue… We are embarrassed. Yes, Miss, we're sure yours is the finest… ahem… butt in town, but we are not interested!

As she bats those long-lashed lids at us, we are reduced simultaneously to pimp and john. We become the peddler and the peddled-to.

Is there anything that can diminish the committed carnivore's appetite? From all we have seen, we are compelled to say no. Over-sexed pigs only stoke their fires.

Incidentally—we hope—bestiality is legal in the state of Florida. At least, according to our cursory research.

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

Alberta Beef

When we were young, we were intrigued by the following conundrum:

What is the only question to which one cannot truthfully answer Yes?

The semi-official answer was "Are you asleep?" Now, of course, in the advanced state of our wisdom and cunning, we can easily imagine many other satisfactory answers to the riddle:

"Are you unable to use the power of speech?" "Have you forgotten the word yes?" "Are you a monolingual Croat who doesn't understand a single word of English?" And so forth. (And a disappointing parlor game is born!)

But one answer we could never have discovered on our own, without aid of this image or a similar mind-altering commercial message is "Are you a Canadian steer proud of 1) his country, 2) his prairie province, and 3) his suitability as a foodstuff?"

How can the poor guy not see it? How can he be unaware that he's being played for a chump, or the Canadian equivalent? (A "gordon," perhaps?) They're pissing in his ear and calling it Molson's.

Hey, pal. You're not on the team. To them, you're not a who, you're a what. You can't be a Canadian any more than a park bench can. All you can be is Canadian meat.

Wise up and quit being a gordon.