Special Report: Pig Logo Exposé

Over the months, we have discovered something curious: copycat pig-related logos. We acknowledge that our time on the front lines may have clouded our judgment. And yet.

We believe we have uncovered evidence for what could be the biggest scandal to hit the suicide food logo industry in a decade. We are prepared to lay out our findings with dispassion. And so, exhibits A–F:










(Clockwise from the top left, like it matters: Joe's West of Memphis BBQ, Keith-A-Que, Smokehouse Bar-B-Que, Sgt. White's Real Pit Cooked B.B.Q., B&P Hickory Pit Bar-B-Que & Catering, Pittman's B-B-Q and Fried Fish.)

Remarkably, the orthography shows more variety than the pig images. You've got your BBQ, your B.B.Q., your B-B-Q, and so on. Apparently, these joints' drive to set themselves apart only reached partway up their signs. At least Smokehouse Bar-B-Que went to the trouble of inserting a rack of "mouth-watering" ribs and a barebecue implement into the image. Way to innovate, Smokehouse Bar-B-Que.

Lacking the investigative skills to dig deeper, we cannot, unfortunately, state with any certainty which of these logos can claim precedence. We can, however, state that this logo should never have been appropriated by anyone. Just look at it!

(Thanks to Dr. Courtney for the Pittman's B-B-Q referral.)







Addendum (8/21/07): A report from Dr. Amy of Portland, Oregon, informs us of yet another puzzling instance of this disagreeable logo. That makes seven.















Addendum 2 (8/25/07): And then there were eight. (Photo from fiery-foods.com.)











Addendum 3 (9/12/07): Nine!













Addendum 4 (10/15/07): Ten! At least Helen's Sausage House of Smyrna, Delaware, has taken a stab at originality with their cartoonified version of our ubiquitous logo.







Addendum 5 (12/15/07): Ugh. Eleven. Enough, already.









Addendum 6 (4/24/08): Twelve. Make it stop. (Image source: interestingideas.com.)














Addendum 7 (11/14/08): Thirteen!













Addendum 8 (11/19/08): Fourteen. Thank you, Dr. Milaka.










Addendum 9 (12/22/08): Do you see? No, this isn't another example of Crotchy, as we call the pig in question. But don't you see? It's the same catfish we've seen associating with Crotchy twice before! We, um… We thought you'd like to know.












Addendum 10 (1/12/09): Fifteen. Thanks again, Dr. Milaka!











Addendum 11 (3/13/09): Sixteen.







Addendum 12 (7/06/09): And here's Crotchy during his stint at Pittsburgh's Mr. Ribbs. (Number 17.) Thank you for the photo, Dr. William.







Addendum 13 (9/26/09): Number 18.








Addendum 14 (12/05/10): And 19.

Deer Ride

Something is rotten in the aisles of America's down-market retailers. Something is stirring in the depths of man's depravity. There, beside the discontinued novelty garden hoses and the Fourth of July-themed paper plates on deep discount, something noxious is taking shape.

We have seen serious dysfunction in our travels, evidence of psyches in desperate need of healing. We have been sent examples of suicidefoodism's sick vision of a world beyond salvation. We have witnessed self-destructive livestock whose actions would negate all the wrongs done against them. Animals made party to their own torment and death. Twisted depictions of innocent creatures that pack the same nauseating emotional punch of prepubescent beauty queens done up as whores.

And now... this.

This appears to be a plaything fashioned in the form of triumphant hunters back from the woods, having bested a graceful herbivore known for taking flight. (Well done, fellas! We were worried about you out there!) Would you find such a toy in poor taste? Would you wonder who could want to give or receive such a gift? What if you were told this "toy" is worse—far worse—than it appears?

From the Gemmy Industries website:

This motion-activated deer lifts his head and sings “Low Rider” and “Sweet Home Alabama”! Watch the hunters BOBBLE their heads to the beat as the car BOUNCES and headlights FLASH!! A great gift for your favorite hunter, or anyone! Requires 4 AA batteries (included).

The dead deer sings. To the hunters who shot him. To death. For no reason. And now they're taking him home to eat or stuff and mount. Or whatever the hell they have in mind.

From the hood of their jeep, his bonds preventing his carcass from being "damaged," the stag croons from his afterlife, giving his assent to humanity's brutal, sneering dominion.

And America sinks another inch.

(Thanks to Dr. Papa Squirrel for the referral.)

St. Louis Style Pulled Pork

Another "humorous" specimen that "works" by trading on the literal. (Pulled pork—or pig—refers to pork that has been smoked so long in a slow cooker that the meat "pulls" easily from the bone. Therefore, we see a pig in the process of being pulled apart. Get it?) Be happy at least that these people do not sell Jamaican jerk chicken.

The salient element in the image, naturally, is the expression on the torture-by-stretching victim's face. He is an enthusiastic participant, objecting to neither the pain inflicted upon him, nor that pain's purpose. Whatever's happening—and for whatever reason—it's all fine and dandy to the pig! "Pull harder! My shoulder hasn't separated yet!" he might be saying.

When enumerating this image's offenses against propriety, let us not ignore the two pairs of ghostly, disembodied hands. From the underworld they protrude, fishbelly pale, to destroy everything good and pure, and drag the remains back with them to their foul lair. For it is only through blood sacrifice that they can cling even to so reeksome an existence.

Pity them. But pity also the pig.

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

Rib Ticklers Championship BBQ Cooking Team

A feather-wielding mountain man. A blushing pig. It could only mean barbecue. (Not to mention the first pig upskirt shot in Suicide Food history!)

Do you notice—again!—that the woman/sow is seamlessly equated with a piece of meat? Delighting her, courting her—tickling her ribs—is the same thing as tickling her... you know, ribs. Her charred and grilled bones. It's like saying you've won the pig's heart and then displaying... you know, her dripping heart.

One is excused for wondering at the relationships avid barbecuers maintain in "real" life. Do they slather their wives in sauce before they kiss them good-night? (This is purely rhetorical. We concede that they almost definitely do not.)

What you miss by confining yourself to the visual element of the Rib Ticklers' logo is the sound from their website. The sound conveys a far richer experience of putridity. Allow us to guide you through it:

First, the logo appears, accompanied by a vicious sizzle. Then, a beat, followed by a girlish giggle. You see? The pig wants to be grilled! Slap her on the barbecue and she giggles for more. Suicide Food 101.

(Thanks to Dr. Mrs. Suicidefood for the referral.)

Simcha Valley

For the Hebrew-challenged, simcha means "happiness," and what could be a more fitting name for this place? This Happy Valley is a piece of paradise on Earth, green with peace. Even the "V" of the logo soars like a dove. Our "holy" cow—see her holy baseball cap?—lounges in her canvas deck chair amid a rolling meadow dotted with wildflowers, fanning herself with a big, um, bloody brisket. (The "happy" metaphor, now flecked with gore and gristle, sags a little here, it's true.)

And what about this simcha, this state of joy? According to the Wikipedia article on the concept, "When a [cow] is happy [she is] much more capable of serving God and going about [her] daily activities than when depressed or upset." (Bovine references added.)

So here, our happy cow is perfectly situated to contemplate and serve God, right up to the Blessed Moment. Of the 613 mitzvot—the commandments contained in the Torah—a great many deal with the proper disposition of sacrificed animals. Our cow is in the right line of work. After her ritual death, her internal organs will be rigorously inspected for any of 70 irregularities that would render her remains non-kosher. (Glatt is often thought of as "ultra kosher," a designation requiring extra scrutiny.) Is it any wonder she is filled with gladness?

Rocky Junior Frying Chicken

This is the first suicidefoodist graphic we've seen that was designed to appeal specifically to tweens. Rocky Junior—he's clearly identified as a minor—has the backward baseball cap, the oversized basketball shoes, and those two (2) big thumbs up. "Awesome!" This fowl has "cool" written all over him and attitude to spare.

The behind-the-scenes quality of the packaging is also noteworthy. They give us the Nickelodeon-watching youngster—the crazy faux-iconoclast—to subvert our rational responses. "To irrepressible Youth!" we say as the years melt away. "Why, I remember when I was a spring chicken..."

But then—why?—those two chicken legs, that crimped and naked gooseflesh! The illusion is dashed and our discriminating minds get something to grab onto.

"Rocky Junior Frying Chicken is people!" we scream as we run down the street in our pajamas.

Or, at least, it's not some cartoon character on a hideous plastic wrapper. It's a flesh-and-bone bird that's been sent through the scalding tanks and hacked apart.

Pork Jihad

A goldmine of offensiveness! Not content to rely on tired suicidefoodist rhetoric, the people of the Pork Jihad—no, that name isn't on the graphic, but trust us—complement the standard pigs-who-want-to-die with a rancid helping of sacrilegious hilarity.

But first, for the tried-and-true: This is one outfit that knows its suicide food! Having undergone thorough self-analysis, they can spell out their guiding principles. They've got a whole Bible-ish backstory, which includes this verse:

"The First Feast: 4. At this the herd of pigs sacrificed themselves, so that they may be packed into P-Ribby's colon as a bullet is packed into a musket."

The pigs want to die. They want to fulfill their destiny, to enact the will of God. So far, so good. We've seen this gag enough times to make us gag. But Pork Jihad gives us something new to chew on, something to offend a part of our brains usually ignored by the dedicated suicidefoodist:

"The Exodus: 4. He then fetched a pig as a sacrifice to Allah, and slowly roasted it for hours, making sure to preserve the natural flavors of the great and noble beast."

"Partake of the Divine Mana that is His slow-smoked goodness. Suckle His tender meat and become awash in His hearty sauces. Come, join His Mujahadeen. Take up the Jihad, declaring Holy War on inferior BBQ pork."

"And Allah said,
'Go out, and render helpless and
slaughter two of every animal.'
And it was good."

These quotes illustrate the full flavor of Pork Jihad's daring. For the entire enterprise is fraught not only with "humor" and the typical kill-'em-all-and-let-God-sort-'em-out tenderness, but also anti-Islamic sentiment. Pigs and Islam hardly go together like pork and beans, after all, and this pairing is obviously meant as a poke in the eye.

The Pork Jihad is stuffed full of contempt for pigs (hardly novel in the world of suicide food) and Muslims. Is that the "logical" extension of a pro-barbecue worldview? Does a love of barbecue lead necessarily to a hatred of America's purported enemies?

One wonders why they didn't take this all the way, though. Those cigar-smoking, all-American capitalist types hardly exemplify the stereotypical jihadist. They obviously represent the pig-headed contingency of Middle America.

Poor follow-through, that's what it is. They lost their nerve.

Lobster Drop

The plucky fighting men and woman lobsters of Crustacean Company have the courage and the drive to succeed. They're well-equipped (goggles and scarves). They're dripping with esprit de corps—corpse?—and all the grit of the professional soldier class.

Truthfully, the only thing they lack is a good cause. Oh, and an enemy. It's a pity, really, all that patriotic passion, all these paratroopers on what amounts to a suicide mission. They fight not for freedom, not to bring down the despot, the tyrant, the maniac, but instead to get themselves cooked in big pots of boiling water. (It's not exactly the kind of thing that lends itself to memorable ditties. "I'll be dead for Christmas. You can diiine on me." Just doesn't pack the emotional wallop we expect from our war songs.)

Operation: Die is a thankless mission. They're "flown in live daily," just more fodder for the cooking pots. Happy to die for, um... for the sake of death, the grunts keep coming, fresh from small towns all across Maine. Cheerfully, they meet death head-on, splashing into it with gusto.

Inspiring, yes, and also insane.

(Thanks to Dr. Scrappy for the photo.)

B.T.'s Smokehouse

And just what is going on here?

Could it really be as awful as it seems? (Could anything be as awful as this seems?)

Before, in the golden springtime of our innocence, we found this distasteful. Oh, to return to those childlike days, when something as tame as a cowboy pig slowly strangling a chicken into a near-death sex-coma was risqué! We mourn our lost naiveté. Life was so simple, the horrors of the world so remote.

But we have taken a pledge. Faced with an image like this one from B.T.'s Smokehouse of Brimfield, Massachusetts, we must do our duty and document our conclusions. Namely, that this is the most deviant act of foreplay we have ever seen. (This cross-species branding play is what the in-crowd refers to as "bronking.")

The mounting steer is our Barry White, full of charm and insistence. Look into his hooded eyes, and you can almost hear his basso profundo, and feel his need. The sow, then, is our coquette slipping into character. The explosive beads of perspiration belie her eroticism. See the smile on this gilt? (That's hog-farmer talk for young female pig.) She knows the score.

That all this is in the service of selling dead animal parts only compounds our nausea.

The Great American Barbecue Roadshow

We got ourselves a convoy! It's a parade of proud, soon-to-be-eaten citizens! All your favorites have come from far and wide to converge upon Westminster, Maryland:

The methane-spewing environmentally conscious cow pedaling in the lead; the "Look, Ma! No hands!" chicken endangering pedestrians left and right in her chartreuse convertible; the skateboarding lamb, representing the younger set (naturally); and, of course, the "man" of the hour, that glad-handing flag waver, the pig, wallowing in barbecue sauce up to his crotch.

In an admirable show of good ol' American gumption and civic pride, these creatures have hit the road. If you won't come to them—to help yourself to a leg here, a breast there, and then a trip over to the rib table—they'll come to you! (I'd like to see French livestock do that.)

It's like the ice cream truck for the blood-thirsty masses!

Soho Street Fair

It takes all kinds to make the world go 'round, and a summer street fair is the place to see them! Why, just take a gander at this exotic fellow!

Those thick eyebrows and lustrous lashes. And the wardrobe! Apparently, he has adopted some Western customs—witness the suit jacket and tie—while retaining elements of his native land. Hence, the shapeless, eggplant-colored bag/skirt (usually referred to, we believe, as a skirg), not to mention the opulent crown. Yes, this potentate must have traveled long to reach Soho, there to entice passerby with his wares. And what wares!

He was forced to sacrifice his own children. But it was worth it, because now he has product: a cheery festoon of sausages draped over his pig-wrists. Those 12 links make a gristly daisy chain with the seductive scent of the first-born.

If he can make one solid sale, he might have enough saved up to pay the euthanasia and butcher bills, so he can finally get himself killed, sold, and eaten. It's every immigrant's dream, one that America is honored to make happen.

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