Yannick Nardini

Quelle joie!! nous allons chez YANNICK NARDINI, they cheer: "What joy! We are going to the butcher!"

Make no mistake: the man's joy is their joy, their fondest wish to follow their master even to the bitterest end. What you are seeing is pride—those snouts up in the air! Pride at being the viande de 1er choix (the "first choice meat").

Note also that the master they follow is not a farmer. That could almost make sense. We can easily imagine at least the bond that might have formed between the animals and their longtime tender. (The following-to-the-death part would still be too much to swallow, however.) But they do not traipse along behind the farmer—it is the butcher whose presence they find intoxicating! (Yes, the butcher: See his apron? See the knife slung below his belt?) The butcher, the very man who will soon kill them! That is the man they are in thrall to!

How they spring! How they trot! How the cow's bell rings out the happy news: Today we are to be butchered! Such a pure distillation this is of suicidefoodism's grotesque ethic! The animals do not live in dumb incomprehension. They do not graciously submit to a fate meted out by their human overlords. These more plausible depictions run counter to the sickness at the heart of suicidefoodism. The animals must caper to their death, ecstatic—proud—for the chance to sacrifice themselves. This is not merely their lot. It is their joy.

(Thanks to Dr. Anonymous Commenter for the referral.)

Suicide Sport: a digression

¡Viva Pedrito!

This tough-talking, crowd-pleasing, animal-stabbing-to-death bullfighter from Portugal shows us how far the suicidefoodist worldview has spread. How like toxic smoke it is, insinuating itself into cultures and pastimes around the globe.

In Portugal, where bullfighting is merely cruel and not necessarily deadly, the matador Pedrito de Portugal (or, in English, Petey Portugal) was fined €100,000 for enthusiastically giving in to the wishes of a frenzied mob audience and killing his bull-opponent. (Tauricide has been outlawed there since 1928, even though bullfighting remains legal. Petey Portugal recently struck out in court, and, presumably, will now cough up the cash.)

In a New York Times article, Petey reveals that he is more than just another vicious idiot. He's also the vanguard of a new form of suicidefoodism, one that we may call suicidesportism. Here are Petey's words:

"Bullfighting in Portugal is like a play with the ending missing. Killing the bull is an art, and the way we do it in Portugal deprives the bull of his dignity." (Emphasis added, to drive home the point that this guy is a special sort of madman.)

To clarify: Portugal (the country) allows bullfighting, just not to the death. Petey, spokesman for an obsolete ideology, pooh-poohs such (moderate) decency, claiming that sparing a bull's life injures its honor.

Do you see? Just as pigs, cows, chicken, deer, lambs, lobsters, fish, and crabs want nothing more than to die at our hands so that they might be fried, roasted, or boiled, Portuguese bulls want to be killed in the name of bloody spectacle.

(Photo of Petey Portugal: Jose Manuel Ribeiro/Reuters.)

The Wild Bunch

A logo notable principally for its inclusion of a rattlesnake.

The conventional hierarchy of suicidefood shills, as we all know by now, is thus:

1. Pig,
2. Cow, and
3. Chicken
(in this order)
The fourth figure, when present, is typically a lamb.

So for The Wild Bunch to elect to go with a snake... Well, wild is right! It's just the kind of off-the-beaten-trail nuttiness that will put the Wild Bunch on the map! Rest assured: it's not all for show. They do serve rattlesnake, wrapped in bacon, no less.

Again, what a disjunctive state of affairs! These pals, these partners—how robust and friendly they are. How like the cartoonified animals we all grew up with, they who served as imaginary friends, boon companions, and windows into the world of human interaction. They would be at home raising hijinks in a tony department store, say, or running riot at the opera.

But all of them—even the lowly snake—are reduced to Orwellian spokesanimals. It is as though our shared cultural inheritance were squandered, traded away in the service of filthy lucre.

This bunch might not have escaped unscathed from their treachery: They might well be greeting us not from the chuck wagon, under a blanket of stars, but instead from the afterlife. That ember-red circle—is it the portal to Hell?

Porci-Mex

Behold nearly 28 pounds of pure Mexican lard. ¡Talk about a Tub of Lard!

Right there on the plastic bucket, a cheerful pig done up in the national costume of his killers.

And, truly, what quarrel could he have with them? After all, they merely butchered him and his family, and recovered their fat from the lifeless bodies and melted it, rendering their essence into a consumer product hardly noted for its rarity. (The Spanish phrase manteca de cerdo translates literally to the comparatively sanitized "pig butter.")

Porci-Mex is too magnanimous to let a little something like the rape of pigdom sour him on humanity. His generous spirit should serve as inspiration to all "food" animals awaiting their final disposition.

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

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.