World of Warcraft Plump Turkey

In the subculture that is World of Warcraft, skilled players can acquire a "vanity pet" known as Plump Turkey.

We have, until now, been immersed in our own noxious subculture, so this one has passed us by. As far as we can ascertain, players who "do" such-and-such are "rewarded" with a ridiculous bird who sacrifices himself at the first opportunity.

Where's the fantasy in that? Brain-damaged animals are everywhere in the real world. This planet is, apparently, littered with them!

This shows us, sadly, that the worlds of fantasy and reality have collided. Neither can remain pure any longer. Neither is safe from the other. When institutions fail in one, they fail in the other. Illness and corruption travel freely.

Suicidal life forms from other planets are already well known to us (as here and here). Now the contagion has spread even in the worlds of imagination!

All hail suicide food, the Universal Constant!

(Thanks to Dr. Kim for the referral. Plump Turkey table from warcraftpets.com.)







Addendum: The pigs of Angry Birds are also electronic gaming-related suicidal misfits. Not only did they steal the birds' eggs in a deliberate act of wanton destruction sure to bring vicious reprisals upon themselves. No, they have also made hams their totem! Look! They go to such lengths, erecting massive, Byzantine structures, all to house the hams that used to be their own! How do we know the hams are theirs? Look at them! The hogs have been reduced to spherical, limbless, hamless heads!

Sa-Mokin Barbeque Sauce

Look, we don't know whether this guy's a pimp or just some throwback zoot-suited hep-cat. But we do know he's looking awfully stylish for a pig who's about to be covered in sauce and cooked. Yes, he's smoking sa-mokin—as in nattily attired—but we know well the word's other senses, and so should the pig.

The worrisome truth is that the pig just doesn't care. Having been ushered into the comforting arms of denial, the pig sees only what's right in front of him.

He knows he has no future. He knows there are no golden years awaiting him. So why waste time on hope?

He can't change his fate—woe betide the pig who believes otherwise—so he busies himself with what he can control: his clothes. His look. His style. It's a trifling thing, but it's the only thing within his grasp, so he clutches at it like a log in a rushing river. It won't save his life, but it might save his soul.

So we'll say the only thing with any meaning at all: Looking sharp, pig.







Addendum (3/21/11): Yes, as Dr. Schnauzer points out in the comments, this pig is of course impersonating Jim Carrey's character from The Mask. Look, we can't be expected to notice everything.

Traeger Nationals

From across the nation they come. Hopeful, flexing their amateur muscles, they come to Nebraska. It's a beautiful thing.

And while they are passionate, many are newcomers and could use some encouragement. Maybe they've come without their families. Perhaps their friends at home can't be bothered to check in for progress reports. Loneliness might prey on them and dull their barbecuing instincts.

No matter!

The Unholy Trinity—the cow, pig, and chicken who headline these events so often—will cheer them on.

From within the flames, they smile, projecting their goodwill. Thumbs-upping those who would cook and eat them, the animals would rather die than allow the competitors to go uncelebrated. Of course, you know, they'd, um... They'd rather die than do just about anything.

Gusto Packing

Not since famed self-hating cow Elsie fretted about humans and their love lives have we seen livestock with such weird priorities.

This pig—this paragon of gusto!—lobbies on behalf of a butchery concern that boasts of its ability to produce six million pounds of pig meat per week.

And why does he do it? What is the altar he throws himself upon? What star guides him into his afterlife?

It's all in the name of your potential for racking up sexual conquests. No, we don't understand why a pig—even a suicidal one—would give two grunts about what humans get up to in the bedroom. (Of course, we're not even addressing the dubious conclusion the pig draws in the first place.) It's enough to know that the thought of giving you your jollies gives him his. Your capacity for scoring means the pig's life—and, more importantly, his death—has meaning. Sort of.

Thee Pitt's "Again"

True, when it comes to horrific menus, nothing can compete with Packard's. (We're sure to be proven wrong, but we'd like to postpone it as long as possible.) Still and all, Thee Pitt's "Again" does offer a sturdy example of madness by way of menu.

For instance, a Southwest lawman pig-type person (?) lounges in a hammock above the fire that will cook him. Oh, but it's nothing to get worked up about. Just a little burning and death! A cool glass of lemonade will see him to his eternal rest in comfort.

His stocking feet dangling over the flames, the lawman smiles knowing that his passing will afford you a pleasant dining experience.


Speaking of dying happily, this rattlesnake approaches his impending destruction with giddy good humor. He embraces the sign announcing his availability as a side dish with an affection bordering on the terrifying.

Snakes are such rare participants in this bloody ritual—we've seen only one other in all this time!—we confess we still haven't figured out what makes them behave the way they do.

The Right Stuff BBQ

These are not ordinary pigs. These are not pigs who work from 9 to 5 and wash the car on Saturday. These are not pigs who install linoleum in the basement or head to the hardware store for a PVC S-trap. They don't go for walks in the cool of the evening. They don't run errands on Sunday.

These are special pigs. They have undergone rigorous training. They have pushed themselves to—past!—their limits.

And why? Why not live as ordinary pigs live?

Because, by setting themselves apart, by taking on challenges that would break lesser pigs, they have the chance to see things no living pig has seen! To experience life at its most intense and precious!

It is an honor they do not accept lightly.

Their mission is bittersweet. With lumps in their throats and a mixture of pride, fear, and anticipation, they approach their launchpad. Or, you know, lunchpad.

They know they might not won't be coming back from this one.

$30,000 Backyard Beach Barbeque and Bands

They strut, they flex. They try to look their best. This is what all the hard work was for. The early mornings. Toughing it out through the pain. Going on in the face of doubt. Would they ever measure up? Would you ever look their way and give them the nod?

On the sand, they strike their poses, pop their muscles, show off the merchandise.

Never forget that these animals see themselves as objects. Not objects of admiration or inspiration. Not sex objects. (Let other animals—lots and lots of them!—inflame our sexual hunger.) No, they see themselves as food objects whose purpose is the stoking of our simplest hungers.

We confess almost total ignorance of this event and its $30,000. But we know enough to know the animals won't be seeing a penny of it. They know it, too. They're not in this for the money. It's something deeper for them, something more immediate. It's about the affirmation that they matter, the assurance that we care about them. Care enough to eat them, that is.

Chickens Who Kick

You know, it's not only pigs who enjoy a hearty helping of imitation, mimicry, and lack of imagination. Some chickens are into that also, which they will now demonstrate:

























































(From left to right, by row: The Kickin' Chicken, Ken's Kickin' Chicken, some other Kickin Chicken; Eagles Pizza Kickin' Chicken, unidentified Kickin' Chicken, Ted's Famous Kickin Chicken (an image we first profiled in a different context); another bird of Ted's, BBQ Fight Club's Kickin' Chicken White Sauce, Coyote Jack's; unidentified kickin' chicken grocery store sign, yet another unidentified kickin' chicken image, Kickin' Fried Chicken.)

The chickens, why do they kick?

The cynics among us—and there could hardly be a less hospitable place for them than here!—would say their propensity for kicking comes principally from the rhyme of chicken and kickin'. Such simple-minded grouchitude.

No! They kick because they are so stuffed with happiness that they can't help it! All that positive energy must come out! It leaks, it trickles, it bursts out! And they kick! With wild, cheerful abandon they kick. It is the chickens' way of telling us, "I am alive! But not for long!"

We could learn a lot from the chickens.

Pappy's Choice Seasoning

The animals are happy, for Pappy has a plan for them.

He will sprinkle his choice seasonings upon them. Upon them all will he sprinkle the seasonings of his choosing. Yea, upon the chicken, the cow, the pig, and upon the fish that dwelleth in the sea will he cast his choicest seasoning.

The Father will transform them from dumb brutes into true Beings. Like the seasonings that adorn their flesh, they too will be marked as Chosen.

Thus are they gladdened, and their smiles they wear like wreaths of glory. Look at the cow's eyes. Hers is a gaze of pure peace. If she could, she would have Pappy choose you as well, so that you might know the joy of being truly well seasoned.

Fat Albert's

Not only is Fat Albert a late inductee into the ranks of the copycat pigs (he's a member in good standing of the Overalls bunch and, down in the lower-left, a dead-ringer for this fellow), but he's also the barbecue equivalent of a talent agency!

The extravaganza he's put together is quite the spectacle! Albert is all about one-stop shopping!

From the, let's say, arresting wordsmithing ("Put the BOLD TASTE of the WEST in your CHEST") to the use of striking imagery, he's hitting the audience right where they live. We especially enjoy the porcine member of the Canadian Army. We're not sure how Albert was able to persuade him to serve as a (literal) poster boy pig—surely most soldiers need a villain to fight—but there he is, rifle at the ready. Do you think Albert let him know the gun's loaded with blanks?

Fat Albert provides a little something for everyone. Especially for pigs who have grown weary of living.

Special Report: Barbecue Battling 2

Continuing a grand tradition of spectacle and misdirected anger, the barbecue battlers battle on. We first became aware of the phenomenon—barbecue battling proper—about two and a half years ago, and we have made a point of checking in periodically ever since. The last time we wrote about it was less than six months ago.











Yes, they've still got scores to settle, these myopic "food" animals. They don't challenge the system that declares them fit only for consumption. Like corrupt regimes the world over, the Barbecue-Industrial Complex pits them against one another, and they take the bait. Seeing in their fellows the cause for their own lowly position, they battle. They wrestle! They brawl! Always against a shadow.










What power they could harness! If they could but see their true enemy, how they could change the world! The empires they could topple!

But no. They make enemies of their brothers. And during the skirmishes of this endless civil war, the barbecuers scoot ringside to take in the circus.

The barbecue battle map we have updated since July, 2008, is now hopelessly parochial, the movement having spread to cover the nation, the continent—a land drowned in feeble rage.