Burger House

See how a real showman does it. He's got 'em eating out of the palm of his hand.

Which is a neat trick for an already-dead foodstuff who wants you to hold him in the palm of your hand and eat him.

Oh and, please, do try the "death burger" if u dar.

One assumes that's Death Burger himself up there on stage, reliving the blessed moment when he first found himself in hell, the flames licking his untied basketball shoes. This is doing nothing to dispel the notion that rock 'n' roll is devil music! There he is, in hell, challenging us all to taste of the Burger of Death!

"Join me, brothers and sisters! One bite of my flesh is all it takes!"

Still, you have to respect the honesty. Let other establishments and frozen food lines offer their "nuggets," their McWhatevers, their salisbury these and those. Burger House up and tells you exactly what's on the bun: death.

Gator's Sports Bar & Grill

It's fascinating, isn't it? Even in an image ostensibly devoted to exalting violence—the diabolical alligator preparing to sever the chicken's spinal column—they manage to shoehorn a little sex into things. "Hottest tail in town," indeed.

It's as though they just can't help themselves. Violence without sex is unthinkable! It would be like barbecue without heart disease! And so, the superfluously lurid slogan.

Of course, what's noteworthy here is not the alligator and what his aims or motives might be. The reptile is just doing what reptiles do: destroy chickens, possibly after mating with them.

Turn to the chicken.

Even with his doom mere inches behind, with death's jaws about to close upon him, he seeks the end on his own terms. Hence, the headlong pursuit of the flames. The chicken doesn't flinch, doesn't waver. He has locked onto the fire and nothing else matters. It is all that gives his life (fleeting) significance.

Yard Pimps BBQ

Continuing the grand tradition of juxtaposing things that have no business being together, we have Yard Pimps BBQ.

We've seen such nonsensical pairings as pigs and politics, chickens and golf, ostriches and Old West lawmen, pigs and pirates—even lobsters and parachutes—so poultry and prostitution seems like the next, logical step.

That strutting cock-of-the-walk: is he the pimp or the john? Judging by the hearts fluttering above the hen's head, he's no john. Prostifowl have been known to develop unhealthy fixations on their pimps, fixations born of fear, desperation, and subterranean self-esteem.

So the Yard Pimps identify with the rooster who services the chickens in his brood, thereby creating more chickens to subject to the ol' barbecue treatment. It's a ruthlessly efficient system.







Addendum: Michael D. Roberts as "Rooster" the pimp from TV's Baretta.

APSA

The self-loathing is staggering. The sheer force of the self-abnegation is almost holy in its purity.

We are unfamiliar with the educational jurisdictions involved, but we can only assume that the process of becoming a diplomate in Pig Sciences is time-consuming, if not grueling.

How many hours must this pig have logged studying, researching, attending lectures? Imagine the discipline, the sense of purpose and sacrifice!

And through the entire program, burning like a candle, his one thought, as though his mind had been crafted solely to carry it and house it: I will be killed! Not "Alas! I am to be killed!" But "As God is my witness, I will be killed! Efficiently! Mercilessly! Scientifically! And my demise will slicken the ramp that leads my kind down, down, down! Down into death!"

The APSA is explicit in their mission: to benefit the pig industry, which is something far different from benefiting pigs.

The graduate's expression reveals not a hint of ambivalence. Untroubled by the (brief) career path he has set his foot upon, he knows the end he craves is near.












Addendum: Oh yes, we've seen his kind before.

Rick's Mobile Backyard Bar-B-Que

Can you read that? "Eating bad BBQ is a crime!"

The pig's crime, to be clear about this, isn't that he cannibalized a pig. Or, presumably, that he's cannibalized many pigs. (His too-small-to-make-out-here tattoo reads I {heart} BBQ.) It's that he didn't insist that the corpse be prepared and seasoned the right way.

Having committed his crime, and having found himself at the mercy of the judicial system, he shows neither contrition nor regret. No—he smiles! While wearing contraband sunglasses!

This is moral instruction? Hardly. It's the nanny state run amok!

And what of rehabilitation? When the miscreant has repaid his debt to a society obsessed with the near-constant consumption of animals, what then? Whither the pig?

Do you harbor any doubt that he will return to his pig-eating ways? And, having pledged himself to the barbecue lifestyle, do you doubt that he will, eventually, throw himself on the sour mercy of the court coals?






Addendum: The law firm of Chix, Swine, and Bovine espouses a similar legal philosophy. "Because Bad BBQ is Downright Criminal." It's nice to know the animals take such an interest in the craft of it.

Clovis BBQ Championship

Three explanations for these pictures come to mind:

• The Clovis BBQ Championship pig is having Matrix-style illusions of experience while his paralyzed body lies in a torpid, pre-barbecue state.

• The clovis BBQ Championship has something to do with pigs given once-in-a-lifetime experiences before they, you know... die?

• Someone finally invented fantasy camp for "food" animals.

Soaring abve California in a hot-air balloon? Rodeo-ing on horseback? Whatever the explanation, this pig seems to be having the time of his life! What's next? Scuba diving? Rollercoastering? Bushwhacking through Amazonia à la Indiana Jones?

We won't begrudge the pig his light-hearted adventures. After all, his imminent death has been foreseen, a death which will find him beset by the souls of all those kinsmen whose deaths he encouraged.

Let him have his (probably fictitious) fun. He won't have many happy days where he's headed.

Crazy Jerry's Cotton Pickin' Chicken Dippin' Wing Sauce

Crazy Jerry is crazy, after all, so it is quite possible that this illustration represents nothing more than a rich and tangy hallucination.

In it, we see Crazy Jerry (remember: he's crazy), perched on the diving board, about to dip himself into the deep end of a swimming pool filled with countless gallons of "wing sauce." The sun blazes like an electric porcupine, our weirdo grins and goggles, and all is right (that is, nuts) with the world.

(Sure, it's Crazy Jerry—motto: "I am crazy!"—but is he actually wearing a bowtie with his swimming trunks? Couldn't be. Not even the insanest bird on Earth would do something that crazy!)

We can't help but admire the zeal with which Crazy Jerry (still crazy) has embraced his delusion. His death-obsessed fantasy life is the only thing that keeps him going.

After all, an imaginary swimming pool full of "wing sauce" is better than no swimming pool full of "wing sauce" at all.

Think about it.

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

Cyborg Cookers

RoboCow might be only partly bovine—at the very least, his snout, horns, chest, one eye, and one arm are the real deal, so that's, what, a minimum of 75%?—but he's all violently deranged meat cooker.

Still, with his organic/mechanical essence, he is poised to be the finest example of the Submissive Dominant we have ever seen! (Here's a beneficent specimen of the form.) Submissive Dominants are creatures—ahem, creations—that use their undisputed power in service of their own destruction.

Though RoboCow has at his disposal the most formidable weapons fashioned by man and Nature, an arsenal that could take out a sizable chunk of the barbecue industry in a blast of infrared glory and bionic awesomeness, he doesn't fight.

Impossibly, this walking weapon neither resists nor revolts. No! He joins in. He lends his talents to the suicidefoodist effort, turning the steaks and keeping a robotic eye on the ribs.

Was it worth it, RoboCow? Can you remember when you frolicked in the grass, the sun on your back, your tail swishing? Is your true self forever buried beneath an unfeeling titanium alloy shell?

Is that you in there, RoboCow?







Addendum: The old-fashioned robotical style of livestock automaton. Note the barbecue fork and the single-minded pursuit of animal cooking.






Addendum 2 (11/29/08): Another one? The more rocks you turn over, the more worms you find. You recognize this motif, yes? It's the Transformer-style mecha-pig from Transformer BBQ.

California Grown Turkey

We can only surmise that this turkey is currently doing time in California's penal system. How else to account for the license plate? Clearly, it is a token of the turkey's prison job cranking those things out.

What is the turkey in for? How much time did he get? Did he receive better legal counsel than the zillions of other turkeys serving the ultimate sentence? Was he railroaded, just another miscarriage of justice?

Regardless, what's up with this guy?

Our guess: he's institutionalized, like Brooksie in The Shawshank Redemption. A life of confinement has eroded his self-confidence, rendering him incapable of surviving on the outside. Wherever he turns, he sees four walls. They're inside him now. And so, carrying his prison cell in his head, he can never be free, no matter what the governor says, no matter how the parole board rules.

All of which brings a turkey a certain demented peace. He can never be free, so he may finally rest. He may quit the race. "That's right, world: gobble it up!"

If he should die on Thanksgiving, at least something "good" will have come from his too-short life. And he might finally have the chance to atone for his crimes. Whatever they were.

(Enjoy a second helping of Thanksgiving insanity here.)

CattleMax

It takes all kinds of animals to make a suicidal movement work.

Not every pig is up to the heavy lifting of barbecue manufacture or kitchen staffing. Not every chicken has what it takes to front a poultry-killing enterprise. And lord knows not every goat has it in him to butt aside all obstacles standing between him and the grill.

So it is with our CattleMax calf.

After all, this world needs slaughterables with brains and not just tender, succulent meat. When cattle ranchers need to track such delicious arcana as scrotal circumference, %KPH (kidney-pelvic-heart fat), and semen inventory, they turn to CattleMax and its tech-support calf.

When he's not pounding out code that allows cows to be managed and processed with speed and efficiency—the foremost hope of all cattle!—he serves as the firm's figurehead. And he's grateful for the opportunity. Whether it's the thrilling world of carcass details or the intricacies of Beef Improvement Federation standards, he's only too happy to bring cattle management (and cattle managers) into the 21st century!

Operation BBQ for Our Troops

The humble joy of gratitude has gone sour.

While we cannot but be moved by the pig and chicken's sincere expression of thanks, we are nevertheless queasy.

For doesn't their attitude make needless the sacrifice that inspired it?

If you were a soldier braving enemy fire, toiling to protect the rights of American "food" animals, only to see those same animals thank you by tossing themselves onto the coals, how would you respond?

Perhaps you would say something like, "Hey, pal! That means I protected you for nothing!"

Or, "Next time, kill yourself first and maybe I can just stay home."

Moving on, is that pig actually a piglet? With the baseball cap and the ill-fitting T-shirt riding up on the pudgy belly, it sure looks like a pig child getting ready to sacrifice himself.

Special Report: Pig Logo Exposé 6

To think, it all started with the Georgia Barbecue Classic! In the 15 months since we analyzed the rotund barbecue inhabitant, reports have filtered in.

Please consider this collection of lookalikes and wonder at the tenacity of the barbecuers, and the stubbornness of an idea.

(Have you been keeping up with our series of barbecue logo exposés? The previous one is here. Of course, as soon as we blow the lid off one of these, the suicidefoodists erect another lid. Is this a losing proposition for us? Should we give up? Never!)

























































(Left to right, by row: Georgia Barbecue Classic, Smitty's Smokehouse and BBQ joint, LawLers Barbecue; Family Ski Meisters Pig Roast, Hog Heaven Ribs, Bubba's BBQ; Stone's Bones, Lonnie's Bar-B-Que (source), Tom's Ribs; Green River Bar-B-Que, Henry's Smokehouse (source), sign on offer at ebay.)

This fellow's standard traits are easy to enumerate: Heart-shaped snout disc, broad smile, floppy right ear, and implement-ready hands. Naturally, not every example of the pig we dub Lumpy includes each of these features. Indeed, Lumpy shows up in a stunning array of variations! Sometimes, he holds a knife and fork (or fork and knife). Sometimes a knife and spoon. Sometimes a fork and glass, and sometimes nothing at all. With or without bandanna, snout round or cordate, beady of eye or not, he is always game to be eaten.

Cheerful to the end, Lumpy only wishes he could sit with you a little longer and enjoy your company (and the taste of pig flesh!), before gladly trotting off to the back room, where his gleeful throat is happily slit.







Addendum (12/21/08): Lumpy's thirteenth sighting! This time, he appears on behalf of Carl's Perfect Pig Bar-B-Que & Grill!







Addendum 2 (2/10/09): Number 14.










Addendum 3 (4/06/09): Lumpy returns for appearance number 15.







Addendum 4 (4/27/09): And, now arriving, appearance number 16!












Addendum 5 (7/12/09): Well, looky here! It's number 17.








Addendum 6 (12/18/09): Number 18.














Addendum 7 (4/19/10): Number 19? Our panel of judges says yes. (The heart-shaped snout disk clinched it.)











Addendum 8 (12/05/10): Number 20. Lumpy's just as fresh and sassy as ever!














Addendum 9 (6/30/11): Number 21 (and the second train-related specimen).