Gatorama

One of the inspiring things about the study of suicidefoodism is its reach. No matter which twig of the tree of life you study, no matter what rock you turn over, you can find something happy about being eaten. And not only that, but you can find creatures happy about dying and being killed. Lobsters longing for the Big Boil. Pigs enamored of knives. Chickens prepared to angle their necks just... so.

And while alligators are not entirely unknown around these parts, they are still curiously rare. Perhaps their primitive reptilian brains have a harder time imagining the glories of death and dismemberment. Maybe they lack the brainpower to understand the many benefits of dying for no good reason.

Could be, but this healthy specimen from Gatorama (if you can call him "healthy" while he's in his death throes) sure seems to get it. The cauldron bubbles, and the gator's tough hide cooks. (That hide, of course, is suitable for wallets, belts, and key fobs, all of which they sell down there at Gatorama.) And he gives a generous wave good-bye as he dies so that he might—at last!—be turned into economical portions of alligator ribs and tail meat.

(Thanks to Dr. Kevin for the referral.)

Alligator Bob's

We don't need to bring up the list, do we? The roster of all the animals we've documented here in their ceaseless bid for death?

There's the Unholy Trinity (cows, pigs, and chickens), of course. And turkeys, geese, ostriches, and emus. Sheep and goats and buffaloes. Whales, fish, crabs, lobsters, crawfish, shrimp, octopuses, squids, clams, and oysters. Even sea urchins, ants, spiders, and worms. Kangaroos! Rabbits! Snakes! Bears! And don't forget the dog! (Search for them all on the site. Make an afternoon of it!)

Sometimes we have the feeling that all of creation is clamoring to die, to be rendered instantly forgotten. We must admit to a certain professional thrill when we find a hitherto unaccounted-for animal knocking on the great black door. So it is with a sour kind of excitement-mixed-with-depression that we present to you Alligator Bob and his reptilian lackey.

The gator is all about the business of being turned into food. He wears the toque. He's got the dipping ladle at the ready. He just wants to die in his brothy little swamp.

The look on his face seems to say, "Don't forget about the alligators! We are sick to death of living, too! We too hope to find our fulfillment, at last, when we have finally abandoned these bodies!"

We know mental illness is at work, festering in his brain, but for a moment, a foolish, fleeting moment, we almost feel happy for the poor thing.

(Thanks to Dr. Bea for the referral.)

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.