Jammin Joes BBQ

Another aging rocker pig trying to cling to relevance. When the crowds stopped coming, when people just up and stopped paying the $5 cover, when he couldn't figure out how to work his online profile, it was time for Jammin Joe to make a career change.

So with that shock of puckish gray hair, the desperate soul patch, the golden earring, he turned to the last resort of so many pigs at the end of the line: barbecue impresario.

Now, surrounded by the trappings of rock 'n' roll rebellion, he dishes up the pig parts to audiences who care nothing for his artistic talents. They line up instead for the chance to partake of his unthinking corporeal qualities: the way his flesh can be made to taste.

Truly, it's all he has left to give, and give he does. All the while, he tells himself he's dying as he lived—defiant, owned by no one. He grabs onto that final, defining illusion, but it is no life preserver. He drags it with him to the bottom.






Addendum: We've never seen the word apostrophobic, but it applies here. Yes, it's Jammin Joes, not Jammin' Joe's. Rock 'n' Rollers have no use for the niceties of punctuation!

Meta-suicidefood: a digression

This specimen of meta-suicidefood has garnered a lot of attention lately. We're not even going to name the product it is meant to advertise. Nor will we link to any of the (many) locations where you can view it online. If you really care, you may do your own legwork.

The reason we term this "meta-suicidefood" is that the commercial does not intend to sell dead animals at all. It profits only indirectly from the themes so common to suicide food analysts. And it is precisely that casual reference that renders it so insidious. For it assumes—rather than asserts—the primacy of suicidefoodism’s central tenet: animals are honored through being killed and consumed.

In this commercial spot, two pigs dine on another. "I like a nice ham," one of them tells us, before asking, "Do you think that's wrong?" He then brushes aside any concerns of morality or decency with the pat non sequitur "We're just enjoying the flavors of a fallen friend." Only in a world tainted by suicidefoodism's sickly vapors could that proposition be conceived, uttered, and embraced. Enjoying the flavors of a fallen friend? Who but a monster would say this? (And who but a fool would think this addressed the issue of morality?)

If your friend died, would you eat him? As the police subdued you, with unconcealed disgust, would you remind them that you were only "enjoying the flavors of a fallen friend"?

Oh, but don't worry. The announcer informs us that the pig is "unwronged."

That’s all, folks! What else can we say? The virus of suicidefoodism has spread so far and infected so many that it has become a cultural touchstone, something requiring no context at all. It just… is. As unremarkable as the air.

(Thanks to Drs. Dave, Josh, Danielle, Meagan, and Carol for the referral.)

"Pig Out" Catering

Suicide food? What's so suicidal about this pinkest of pigs suspended above the greedy flames?

Is this what you're wondering?

It is grisly, to be sure.

Horrific, we agree.

But suicidal? Isn't this but the routine slow-roasting inflicted on untold pig carcasses every day across this miraculous old world of ours?

Sometimes a simple change can throw the matter into stark relief. Let's look at a detail of the image inverted.

Now do you see? The smile?

Though upside down, the fires tickling his ear, the pig smiles! Burning alive, he has found the tranquility he yearned for! At long last, his life, being so short now, so near the end, has meaning. He has even dressed for the occasion. Sort of. If you can call wearing-nothing-but-a-bow-tie "dressing up."

The ward of a quality Australian outfit, he knows he will be delivered into his afterlife with all the enthusiasm, if not the outright brutality, he deserves.

We would also like to point out the sly homage to the checkered flag motif, always appropriate during such times.

Them Belly Full BBQ Co.

We are in the presence of the most culturally insensitive artifact we have ever uncovered.

Take a bow, barbekooks. You've really outdone yourselves this time.

When a music legend's plea for racial justice and the acknowledgment of our shared humanity becomes another lamebrain barbecue slogan… Well, it tries one's faith.

We are all accustomed by now to the coarsening of our culture, the cheapening of our history, the defiling of our profoundest yearnings. It has happened so often, many of us no longer know the difference between authentic lives lived and the greasy speeches and grimy lies of the advertisers, the hypnotizers, and the bamboozlers.

Charlatans show us a warped mirror of ourselves and mesmerize us with voices we take to be our own. They do this to sell us things we don't want, need, or even understand. They do it to prevent us from feeling our own power.

Which brings us back to Bob Marley's anthem of despair "Them Belly Full (But We Hungry)."

Cost of livin' gets so high.
Rich and poor they start to cry.
Now the weak must get strong.
They say, "Oh, what a tribulation!"
Them belly full, but we hungry.
A hungry mob is a angry mob.
A rain is fall, but the dirt it tough.
A pot is cook, but the food no 'nough.

Food is not enough. The spirit must be nourished. The thirst for mercy must be slaked!

Only… not in Suicidefoodistan. Everything there is just an excuse for mocking the animals sold down the river. So the "hungry, angry mob" is just that: No longer a metaphor for the multitudes who would be free, now it is only a problem to be solved by suicidal animals marching to their besotted deaths. "Hungry, you say? Here."

The animals (including a pig, whose flesh is abjured by many Rastas) wear dreadlocks and bear all the telltale signs of ganja use. Their flag is the distasteful bastard child of the Rasta and Texas flags.

Is nothing sacred? Can you really wonder?

What's Cooking in Tryon

Vintage cookbooks could be the next unplumbed lode of source material! (Don't forget this one.)

This example, from a 1955 publication, offers a chilling portrayal of Eisenhower-era conformity.

The pig's got the let's-not-rock-the-boat basics down: He bears witness to a pork chop recipe, smilingly. But he goes so far beyond the suicidal "food" animal's job description that he deserves special mention.

It's only the occasional animal that allows itself to be presented as though its very being is synonymous with food. Not only edible—that is, transformable into food—but being indistinguishable from food. (Here is an example of this horrifying concept.)

Now look how the Inman pig has outdone this ploy.

He has become one with the very means of his transubstantiation into supper. He is now part of the apparatus that will render him into the main course: He is becoming the shallow pan the recipe calls for. No longer a living organism—or no longer merely a living organism—he has embarked on a hellish journey to a new, lapsarian reality.

(Thanks to Dr. Kat for the referral and image.)

Bacon Freak Bacon Club

The (oh, please let it be!) ironic adoration of bacon has never been taken to such an extreme.

The baconcult has always been tedious, ranking up there with the winking obsession for retro bowling attire and bad television. But Bacon Freak turns it into something altogether depressing.

For instance, this pig wearing a shirt that bears the likeness of a pig and extols the dubious virtues of bacon.

For bacon is so magical that even pigs love it. Yes, even amateur rebels appreciate having permission! And fear not—the pigs approve!

So indulge your every appetite! Satisfy your every craving! No one's stopping you! The pigs have given you the keys to their greasy city.






And lest you fear that it's only bacon—that the pigs would bogart the other by-products of their blessedly brief lives—be advised that the pigs want you to enjoy the entirety of their abundance. Ribs! Ham jerky! It's all up for grabs.

The pigs are here to serve. Boy! Are they ever!
















Addendum: We can't help but be "impressed" with the presentation of this product. Nauseatingly called "piglets," these bacon pieces are shown in a serving dish shaped like a pig's head. Finally! Man is free to safely give in to his desire to eat the brains of a piglet with his fingers!










Addendum 2 (4/18/09): We were recently discovered by the Coastal Vineyard wine blog, which, in some way we don't understand, is affiliated with the Bacon Freak bacon club. They took issue—but gently—with our post. While we enjoy the attention, and any addition to our readership is welcome, we think they missed the boat. They believe pointing out that actual pigs will eat bacon if it's put in front of them somehow invalidates our thesis. Namely, 1) that real pigs have an interest in not being killed and eaten, and 2) that real pigs wouldn't willingly endorse pork products. (We feel foolish even pointing this out, as though it weren't already shamefully obvious.) The Coastal Vineyard/bacon people also believe that because animals eat animals—a fact with which we were vaguely aware—those animals wouldn't mind so much being eaten by us.

Frank's for the Memories

At last, hotdoggers have entered the pun-filled wasteland heretofore inhabited exclusively by establishments affiliated with barbecue!

Hotdog? Frank? Frank Sinatra?

Thanks for the memories?

(This place is either trying way too hard or not nearly hard enough.)

Regardless, the entire display is uncomfortable. When a hotdog is outfitted with human body parts and the recognizable face of a dead celebrity, psychic turmoil is the only logical outcome.

Old Blue Eyes has returned from the dead in the form of a dapper extruded meat product who wants us to eat him while he croons to us through his flexible straw/microphone.

That's hardly in keeping with the Frank Sinatra we are familiar with.

Grillin' on the Bay

Larger than a Brooklyn brownstone! Towering above hard-working wooden boats! Looming over churches! Bigger, even, than a common seagull. (?)

(Suicidefoodists have a well-known problem with scale.)

Class? Can anyone tell us what principle this image demonstrates?

Yes, the Submissive Dominant.

In brief: a Submissive Dominant is an animal powerful enough to resist—but which nevertheless consents to—its own subjugation. A classic example can be explored here.

Case in point, this pig. He could rampage through Sheepshead Bay kaiju-style, leaving carnage and bloodshed in his wake. He could fill the people with a fear so toxic it would haunt their hearts forever. Or, he could walk away from the monstrous grill constructed for him. But he doesn't.

He just hunkers down, a bemused smile on his face, comfortable in the knowledge that his cooked flesh will feed many.

(By the way, this is the actual, largest pig ever.)







Addendum: Sheepshead Bay is only the latest gruesomely apt place name we've come across, following in the tradition of Neuse River.

Almost Relevant Breaking News: Chick-Fil-A Mascot Attacked

Quasi-suicidefoodist Cow Mascot Tackled by Mystery Assailant

Fredericksburg, VA. The Chick-Fil-A fast-food restaurant chain's cow mascot, a longtime supporter of the consumption of chickens, was knocked to the ground by an unknown shover. While not a true adherent of the suicidefoodist movement, the cow nevertheless worked closely with the purveyors of "food" animals. Police have no suspect or motive.

Note: This actually happened.

Watch the video report.

El Paisano

The Paisano gives us the perfect opportunity to discuss one of the suicidefoodists' most endearing gambits: The Shrug.

Look at el pollo. Doesn't his stance fill you with fond feelings? Can't you feel your misgivings melt away like so much cotton candy? Where were we? And what were we talking about, anyway?

It's The Shrug! The Shrug works like a sly magic upon the massed forces of rationality.

The Shrug serves to highlight not the animals' powerlessness—although we don't like seeing ourselves as tyrants—but their apathy. And if they can't be bothered to flee, object, or even care, surely we are off the hook.

The Shrug tells the tale of cheerfully abided resignation. The chicken's response to destruction: Oh well!

So, shrugging at the dismal, vicious fate that awaits them—shrugging, that is, instead of attempting to avoid it—they saunter to their death. And we watch them go, somehow believing there was nothing anyone could have done. The Shrug told us everything we needed to know about life, its purpose and possibilities, its perils and promise.







Addendum: Cows can do The Shrug too! (And so can slabs of ribs.)

Sherwood Bar-B-Cue

The nuzzling pigs have a secret.

It's a secret so horrifying that the only medium hideous enough for it is the sign of a barbecue restaurant.

"This is why we never run out of bar-b-cue. Because we are constantly in rut, and the offspring that result—we like to call them by-products—are intended for you to eat."

A more effective argument for abstinence, or at least birth control, we can hardly imagine. (Although this is equally convincing.)

Do you see how the sow is transported, while the boar shoots us a knowing glance? It's the timeless dance of male and female essence, performed by pigs. That they play their parts knowing the outcome—confiscated and murdered children—is enough to sour us on love.

(Thanks to Dr. larrywfu for the photo.)

King of the Sea Seafood Restaurant

Weep no tears for the faded king and his forlorn kingdom!

True, the royal readerboard, record of the bards, announces the king's fate:

Killed Jumbo.

Verily was King Jumbo slain, struck down by a foe whose identity has been lost to the ceaseless waves.

But dry your eyes! The soaring songs are yet sung! Though the sign be weathered, its paint peeling, its greatness consigned to memory, the legend lives!

Recall him as though he still stands atop the waters. His trident, the blunted symbol of his meekness! His grin, the invitation to any and all to slaughter his entire people! His crown, frivolous trinket denoting nothing! Hand on hip in wan mockery of righteous anger!

The king is dead. Long live the king!

(Thanks to Dr. gongfujazz for the photo.)







Addendum: Or it's Grilled Jumbo. Either way.

Miss Polly's Soul City Cafe

Miss Polly is a tough old bird.

In between visits to the kitchen, she trades snappy repartee with the customers.

Think you're all that? She'll cut you down to size with a wink and her quick wit.

Complain that your meat is overdone or your eggs over-runny, your fried chicken too hot or not hot enough, and she'll be there to tell you what's what.

Yes, sir—she's a tough old bird. Until you look deeper. For then you'll see the real Miss Polly, the aura of down-home wisdom she radiates. Her no-nonsense philosophy is imprinted on her heart: Love, Peace, and Chicken Grease. It's more than an erudite rhyme—it's a whole mindset. A potent summing-up of life's most basic needs.

And Miss Polly dares you to find something strange about a chicken including the ingestion of chicken fat among the essentials of a happy existence. Mention it and you'll get a smart rap across the knuckles with that spoon of hers.

No, better to keep eating. And if you set down that drumstick without gnawing off every last scrap, Miss Polly will have something to say about it.