The Farmers Market Cornwall

The suicidefoodist splinter group that's been on everyone's mind is now front and center!

The so-called Happy Meat movement takes suicidefoodism's implicit creed and makes it explicit. Its two primary postulates: 1) Animals raised under certain so-called "humane" standards are happy, and 2) Such animals, perhaps in gratitude, are content to die for the pleasure of humans.

The Farmers Market Cornwall sullies this already-shabby system with the addition of a dreary, yet depressingly familiar, twist. Namely, that there is no distinction to be made between an animal and its flesh. The presence of the sheep himself—the woolly, willing victim—seeks to lend credence to this rancid worldview.

We would not use the word happy to describe an animal who sees and values himself only as meat, as a commodity to be consumed by others. We would say instead perverted.

Try and understand: he poses with a sign that proclaims his status as inanimate object and, moreover, suggests that his happiness matters only because his palatability derives from it.

Otis and the Bird

We've covered plenty of fanciful imagery here, so it's nice to profile something straight out of, you know, reality.

A pig and chicken cowboy, hats pulled down low, just lazing by the fire after a full day's… work?

As The Bird hoists the rotgut, Otis offers up the traditional cowboy toast: a slab of the cook and good wishes for a manly death, painless or otherwise.

Beneath a blanket of starlight, a snake (only the third ever profiled) huddles close.

The whole thing is so realistic, you have to look closely to see that it's not a photograph; it's a drawing!

Having made that discovery, we realized that maybe some of the details of the scene are actually fictional. First off, in real life, pigs and chickens are seldom employed as cowboys. And—from everything we've ever learned—the ones who are wouldn't be propping themselves up on logs around the campfire. No, sir! They'd be smack-dab in the middle of the fire, where nothing is left to chance! And, if those livestock/cowpokes are anything like the hundreds of animals we've come to know so well, they could also be counted on to strangle the snake and drag him into the flames behind them!

Sometimes we just don't know who to believe.

The Capitalist Pigs

The capitalist pig, representing a barbecue team, is a sly variation on our much-discussed Submissive Dominant motif. This pig isn't physically imposing, able to visit havoc and death on his oppressors, but ultimately choosing not to, for reasons unfathomable.

No, this submissive dominant is socially, financially superior. He could buy and sell those who would consume him. But he does not. Nor does he hire someone to "teach them a lesson," if you know what we mean. Nor set in motion any process the wealthy have at their disposal to effect their desired ends: the bribing of aldermen, the smoky-room dealings at city hall, the calling in of favors at the precinct houses. Instead, he… does nothing. He rolls over, heaping the coals about him.

In doing so, he lends his imprimatur to the whole business. Owing to his elevated standing in society, this testimonial carries extra weight.

And a monocled pushover dies, believing that even this will benefit his bottom line.

Barnyard Smackdown

Apparently, this is a whole thing. Our most recent examples of animal-on-animal violence showed chickens fighting for the supposed honor of the culinary tradition that would soon claim their lives and pigs sparring for equally specious reasons.

Now we see what happens when rivalries straddle the species line.

Everything about this tableau is distasteful. Starting with the foundational philosophy, of course: animals deriving their flimsy self-worth from their palatability, and resorting to brutality to defend their status as prized food items.

But the specifics are shudderingly unpleasant too: the pig taunting the cow with his heavyweight belt, the cow hiding the (backward?) brand behind her back, the seats full of barnyard spectators, the chicken—so often an afterthought—in the out-of-the-limelight role of referee.

To quote the Roman poet Juvenal (what, again?): "Two things only the people anxiously desire—bread and circuses."

Now, a scant 1900 years later, the animals have become both food and spectacle.

Bootleg Bar-B-Q

With an illegal pig under his arm and a pail of questionable barbecue sauce sloshing onto his dungarees, a backwoods ne'er-do-well tries to ditch the revenuer. Or the gummint's barbecue inspector. Or whatever.

Believe it or not, there's something even more important going on here than the extravagant display of stereotypes! (Quick note: More stereotypical barbecuing hillbillies here and here.)

What has really grabbed our interest is that Bootleg Bar-B-Q is propounding a novel legal theory. Previously, we've seen the assertion that access to barbecue is a civil right, the denigration of criminal barbecue, and the thoughtful observation that legally obtained seafood is preferable.

Bootleg Bar-B-Q, however, flips such prudent legalisms upside down. To hear them tell it, it's the very goodness of barbecue that could render it illegal. ("So Good it Oughta be Illegal!") And what of the pig? That smiling accessory is now an accomplice, aiding and/or abetting this blatant act of barbecue in the second degree.

Smoked Encounters of the Third Swine

We now know for certain that the desire of animals to be eaten is not confined to Earth. No, it is universal!

This image is all the evidence we need to conclude that all sentient life, wherever and in whatever form we may discover it, wants nothing so much as dying at our hands. We are both humbled and heartened, to realize our place in the untold vastness of the cosmos.

Still, it is puzzling—just a bit—that a species capable of such awesome feats of engineering and mathematics could travel across limitless space, the stars a blur in the background, and enter the atmosphere of our obscure, blue planet, only to say, "Take me to your eater."

Unless… Is it possible that this is not actually intended as documentary proof that extraterrestrial pigs have visited Earth and volunteered to die? Could this be mere propaganda? Another cunning deception from the Movement?

Our investigation is ongoing.

Mr. Bobo's Traveling BBQ Allstars

Remember this bunch of performing entrées? And this circus of carnivory? Total amateurs. Mr. Bobo's troupe are artists.

They ride unicycles, juggle, balance (while holding umbrellas), and get shot out of cannons!

And they do it all for… Well, not for you, exactly. They do it so that you will love and respect them enough to eat them. So it's really like a gift they give themselves.

Still, you have to wonder how creatures can think of themselves as food—yes, yes, "the greatest food on Earth"—and still work so diligently to perfect their craft. The chickens fly! The pigs have grace! They have conjured up a wonderland. And for the grand finale? They die, get cooked, and are eaten.







Addendum: We assume that any resemblance to The Bingo Long Traveling All-Stars and Motor Kings is purely coincidental.

Surf's Up, a retrospective

Surfing is the perfect sport to pair with the oblivion-loving cult of Suicidefoodism.

What better illustrates the go-with-the-flow attitude, the humility-in-the-face-of-larger-forces outlook of suicidal "food" animals?




These pigs derive their meager feelings of power through acts of submission. Only through the canceling of the self can the self flourish.

It's exactly the sort of paradox the Movement thrives on.






Surfing is just the right metaphor for the life of pigs brainwashed by the barbecuers.









The sacrificial pigs stay focused, never letting the harsh facts of reality intrude on the experience of the moment. For a spell, they can believe it's just them and the waves out there. Nothing else matters. Their profound futurelessness doesn't exist when they're one with the ocean. (Hog Island BBQ painting shown here.)




Even the hamburger is hangin' loose.










Addendum (12/23/09): More hanging loosely.














Addendum 2 (4/10/10): With his mother's ribs on a plate, his father's meat on a bun, and his honey waiting for him on the beach, Sooey rides the big one. The big one. You know. The Big One? Death?












Addendum 3 (4/25/10): Another radical and/or tubular pig.













Addendum 4 (7/06/10): It's the Surf & Snack burger's angry twin, Chicago's House of Ribs' burger (complete with the same spatula, shadow, and partial "hang loose" hand).









Addendum 5 (8/12/10): Bird, bird, bird! Bird is the word!















Addendum 6 (9/01/10): This little surfin' sow can even do it in cowboy boots and Daisy Dukes.

Addendum 7 (12/18/11): A pig desperate to recapture a youth (and palatability) he never really knew.

Festival of Cruelty 10

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to post #500 and the tenth installment of our Festival of Cruelty series!

By now, you know the drill: Every fifty posts, we descend into the sewers beneath Suicidefoodland, where things are even fouler. The feeble light thrown by the Movement's tepid illusions is extinguished. We are left gasping, eyes streaming. (Visit our most recent installment for a taste.) Gone are the lies that provide some with plausible deniability. These animals don't want it. They're not asking for it. They just want to make it all stop.

Red Pig B-B-Q: High drama at the barbecue joint! Not only high drama, but ruthless, bloody drama. It's practically Shakespearean! (With maybe a pinch of Wes Craven for texture.) A pig flees a cleaver-wielding madman. The pig speeds on teetering trotters. He thinks he's going to make it. Yes, he will escape. He will arrive at the inn, wrapped in warmth and safety. The fog parts. And then he sees it: the red corpse, suspended by infernal magic above the deathless flames. At that moment, he finally understands that he will die. He will die and be eaten. Fear is the tastiest marinade. (Thanks to Dr. Eddie Huffman for the photo.)



Bear's BBQ: Imitating the very best that humanity has to offer, Bumpkin Bear drags a terror-stricken pig toward the grill. The cruel fork in his paw promises an afternoon of torture. The bear—just look at that expression, equal parts smug and dumb!—might as well be taking out the garbage, for all the care he's putting into the procedure.




Oakdale Testicle Festival: It's a Festival of Cruelty tradition! The steer—or turkey!—clutching his mutilated crotch in horror, pain, and impotent rage! And really, is anything more heart-warming than that? Anything short of Abu Ghraib, that is.





Uncle Ernie's BBQ: What we think happened here is that someone, just for the hell of it, slipped the pig a bad dose of mescaline. That explains the god-awful vision of the barbecue with legs being ridden by a sombrero-wearing, lasso-twirling cactus. You'd run for your life, too! This image encapsulates an entire abominable worldview, as the pig tries to stay one step ahead of the demons conjured by his shattered sanity.




Frying Pan BBQ: Extreme hazing? Barbecue rape? We have no way of knowing and, moreover, wish we had never, ever seen this. "Smoke gets in our butts"? What in God's name is going on here? No, no, don't tell us. We still have some small shred of hope for humanity.

Winelands Pork

Winelands Pork is a South African outfit that prides itself on its status as "an export approved abattoir specialising in the slaughtering of pigs."

And they're not the only ones with pride! Their pig spokesman is just busting! He's not the public face of any old pig-killing bunch, you know. This one specializes/ises! They "adhere to strict hygiene protocols." And he's in good company—they have the capacity to slaughter up to 4,000 pigs a week!

Why, they even have an "onsite… veterinarian [to] ensure that the abattoir functions to the most strictest of standards as required locally as well as internationally." The pig's got a private physician! To guarantee that he and his chums are killed and butchered properly. No wonder he's grateful!

He can sleep easy, knowing that his humans are always thinking about him, seeing to his needs and comfort, making sure his essence doesn't contaminate the human food supply. (A frequent cause of worry among pigs!)

Sidenote: Do slaughterhou—pardon us. Abattoirs. Do abattoirs commonly have vets on staff? And do veterinary credentialing bodies have anything to say about their docs performing in this capacity? The way, for instance, the AMA has rules about physicians participating in, say, torture?

(We can't say for certain whether this is the vet, snapped while tending one of his patients.)










And just for laughs, here's another Winelands Pork pig. Dude: only 32.98 rands for a kilogram of vark skouer of boud tjops? We'd be happy, too, to know that our meat was on offer at such a resonable price!