Beer Bird

Strangely, this is not the first hapless, soon-to-be-dead-drunk and stuck-on-a-can-of-beer chicken we have presented. But it is the most carefree. Unlike this example and the one found here, the Beer Bird is "feeling no pain."

He has managed to find an antique can of beer—with a pull-tab!—and he's halfway to oblivion, having arrived at the waystation known as Overconfident. With the stars of senselessness popping all around him, he flashes the thumbs-up of the self-appointed expert.

"Thash right, buddy. What we're gonna do is, is… I'm gonna jam myself down onto this here beer, and... Hey, gar-son! Howzabout a little nother canny canny for the Bird Beer?"

Does he know what he's in for? Does he truly know what he agreed to?

Oh, he knows.

The packaging he appears on couldn't be more explicit.

Once he's drunk himself to death, he'll be set upon a final can of beer. This will be the chariot that races him, crisp and redeemed, to the Promised Land.

"Let th' other birds peck peck peck and get their neck wrung. Sucker's game is what that is! Yours truly's got other ideas. Blaze of glory! Way I'm gonna go out. Settin' on a beer can. Beer can's my rocket, am I right?"

Take her easy, Beer Bird. Godspeed.

Wild Mountain Smokehouse & Brewery

Let us consider some of the techniques pigs have employed to ingratiate themselves with us.

Self-cooking? Obvious.

Self-saucing? Childish.

Self-grinding? Barbaric.

But self-boning! Say now—that's gracious and sophisticated!

The pigs of Wild Mountain have hit upon a true improvement in the way suicidal "food" animals service their clientele.

Yes, their decreased structural integrity leads to a lack of coordination—hence, the toppled mug of beer—but life is all about trade-offs.

This skeletally refined pig, this walking, culinary radiograph, almost manages to erase the very physicality that might compromise your enjoyment. It is as if his bones—signature of his organicity, his livingness—never even existed. They are but filmy impediments, easily, magically dispelled. One shake of his dear squiggle of a tail, and the bones fall away, like crumbs, like the excess salt from an oversized pretzel.

And do you see it there, hidden among the useless bones, the detritus of living things? A tiny rump-heart, a token of his gratitude. Buried within his quasi-physical form, an organ of adoration. Adoration for you, his patron. His consumer.








(Thanks to Dr. Nichole for the referral.)

Anatomy of a Scandal: a digression

On the occasion of this, our second suicidefoodiversary, we would like to discuss a phenomenon we've seen several times now.

Periodically, something we write here rankles the delicate sensibilities of the Barbecue-based Community. Word spreads through the barbecue forums—no, really, they exist—and the indignation gathers like heartburn. Here’s how it usually takes shape:

1. In googling himself, someone discovers that the logo of his barbecue team (barbecue team, barbecue forum—we’re still just not used to the world) has been discussed on the Suicide Food blog.

2. The googler then posts a breathless comment—“You'll never believe this!”—to his favorite forums. Forums, plural. The affrontery must be disseminated widely.

Here, we get to see the twining paths of affiliation. Regional barbecuers with their arcane subspecialties might link to hunters and vice versa.

3. Buddies and partisans pile on, first with unfounded legal opinions, then with the same tired litany of “jokes” that have been circling the bowl for decades, and then with ad hominem attacks and/or threats. The latest charming invective: “Here's a link with the blogger's real name. Sounds like the guy needs to be beaten until he leaks. Road trip?” (That example from a professional wedding photographer!)

Were you aware that PETA actually stands for People Eating Tasty Animals and that vegetarian is an Indian word for “bad hunter”? Gadzooks, that's good times! You are of course familiar with this "funny" adage: "There is room for all God's creatures. Right next to the potato salad." Seriously, it's like the Algonquin Round Table over there! Finally, there are painful, cricket-inducing disquisitions on the consciousness of plants and the utility of humans' ineffective, pointy-ish incisors.

4. Our meager traffic inches skyward as the nation’s barbecuers scramble to see what the fuss is about, compare stereotypes about vegans, and wax he-man about the joys of dead animals (and the means of making them become that way).

Point of “interest”: Invariably, the declaration will be made that we have too much time on our hands. Yes, this stinging broadside from people spending their precious hours at forums devoted to musing about barbecue!

An enthusiastic bowhunter from Texas recently remarked: “It is sad that someone has that much time to contribute absolutly (sic) nothing to society except their whinny (sic) ways.” His society-bolstering contribution? Attempting to rid the world of doves, deer, and quail! Take that, us!

Breaking News (9/14/09): Right now, three different regional barbecue forums (Arizona, California, and Utah) are discussing one of our posts simultaneously. So far, it's following the script perfectly.

Hae-Nam Kalbi & Calamari

Though crudely rendered (so, so crudely rendered), these two can teach us all a lot about life. And death. Mostly death.

Arm in "arm," they pose for their final portraits. Squid smiles, pig grimaces, and they prepare to die. But even in that last march, they reaffirm the value of friendship. No lonely slog into the afterlife for them.

It's not hard to imagine them sharing their own flesh with each other, blending their meats even as their souls begin the Waltz of Death.

And that's the real message: In the face of an uncertain world, where every day is a precious gift, animals just want to die so you can eat them.

(Thanks to Dr. Adam for the referral.)

Smokin Joe's BBQ

Glimpse the paradise of the devout suicidefoodist!

The easy-to-handle miniature pig is perfectly comfortable sitting on the smoking grill. The overflowing... flask (?) of barbecue sauce has rendered the chef's hand... transparent?

Wonder piled on wonder!

Yes, the pig is finally freed from his bondage so that he might—at last—voluntarily cook himself! To stand upright (or sit, or whatever) instead of cringing. To demand the right to be eaten—and to receive it! To have a voice! To matter!

The pig, looking more like a demonic imp (or perhaps a gargoyle), has achieved his equality. He has arrived at the same place as his human friend. No more service entrance for him. No more "deliveries in the back, please." He is an invited guest as well as an ingredient.

The be-overalled man is likewise freed: freed from the brutal dominance that was his birthright. No more is this ugly business Man's burden. Now all share in the labors. Brothers at last! The lion has lain down with the lamb! The pig has plopped himself down upon the grill.

O, heaven on earth!

Superdawg

For 60 years, this proud, simple, Cro-Magnon wiener has presided over Chicago. For 60 years he has glowered flirtatiously at his Jane. And for 60 years, his clear message has rung out:

Me super! Put me in mouth and eat!

As you may have noticed, there's something about superheroes that the suicidefoodists have trouble with. First there was that cape-wearing catfish mistaken for royalty, and now this. People, listen: superheroes do not wear crowns and they certainly do not wear Tarzan-style loin cloth things. (And he was even "inspired by the superheroes featured in the newly-created, popular comics of the '40's.")

Ahem.

For undead food—once killed, lingering still—Superdawg is a little full of himself. Doesn't he realize he's just an amalgam of animal parts, commingled like so many loose recyclables?

No matter. Having been stolen from his jungle home, he looms above Chicago. Biceps permanently flexed, he demands to be eaten.

Bonus picture: After a hard day of beckoning and posturing, Superdawg relaxes in civilization's plushest fer-nit-chur.






(Thanks to Dr. Ari for the referral.)







Addendum: The powerful Power Dogs power dog is no slouch either.

Burger House

See how a real showman does it. He's got 'em eating out of the palm of his hand.

Which is a neat trick for an already-dead foodstuff who wants you to hold him in the palm of your hand and eat him.

Oh and, please, do try the "death burger" if u dar.

One assumes that's Death Burger himself up there on stage, reliving the blessed moment when he first found himself in hell, the flames licking his untied basketball shoes. This is doing nothing to dispel the notion that rock 'n' roll is devil music! There he is, in hell, challenging us all to taste of the Burger of Death!

"Join me, brothers and sisters! One bite of my flesh is all it takes!"

Still, you have to respect the honesty. Let other establishments and frozen food lines offer their "nuggets," their McWhatevers, their salisbury these and those. Burger House up and tells you exactly what's on the bun: death.

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.

Yard Pimps BBQ

Continuing the grand tradition of juxtaposing things that have no business being together, we have Yard Pimps BBQ.

We've seen such nonsensical pairings as pigs and politics, chickens and golf, ostriches and Old West lawmen, pigs and pirates—even lobsters and parachutes—so poultry and prostitution seems like the next, logical step.

That strutting cock-of-the-walk: is he the pimp or the john? Judging by the hearts fluttering above the hen's head, he's no john. Prostifowl have been known to develop unhealthy fixations on their pimps, fixations born of fear, desperation, and subterranean self-esteem.

So the Yard Pimps identify with the rooster who services the chickens in his brood, thereby creating more chickens to subject to the ol' barbecue treatment. It's a ruthlessly efficient system.







Addendum: Michael D. Roberts as "Rooster" the pimp from TV's Baretta.

APSA

The self-loathing is staggering. The sheer force of the self-abnegation is almost holy in its purity.

We are unfamiliar with the educational jurisdictions involved, but we can only assume that the process of becoming a diplomate in Pig Sciences is time-consuming, if not grueling.

How many hours must this pig have logged studying, researching, attending lectures? Imagine the discipline, the sense of purpose and sacrifice!

And through the entire program, burning like a candle, his one thought, as though his mind had been crafted solely to carry it and house it: I will be killed! Not "Alas! I am to be killed!" But "As God is my witness, I will be killed! Efficiently! Mercilessly! Scientifically! And my demise will slicken the ramp that leads my kind down, down, down! Down into death!"

The APSA is explicit in their mission: to benefit the pig industry, which is something far different from benefiting pigs.

The graduate's expression reveals not a hint of ambivalence. Untroubled by the (brief) career path he has set his foot upon, he knows the end he craves is near.












Addendum: Oh yes, we've seen his kind before.

Rick's Mobile Backyard Bar-B-Que

Can you read that? "Eating bad BBQ is a crime!"

The pig's crime, to be clear about this, isn't that he cannibalized a pig. Or, presumably, that he's cannibalized many pigs. (His too-small-to-make-out-here tattoo reads I {heart} BBQ.) It's that he didn't insist that the corpse be prepared and seasoned the right way.

Having committed his crime, and having found himself at the mercy of the judicial system, he shows neither contrition nor regret. No—he smiles! While wearing contraband sunglasses!

This is moral instruction? Hardly. It's the nanny state run amok!

And what of rehabilitation? When the miscreant has repaid his debt to a society obsessed with the near-constant consumption of animals, what then? Whither the pig?

Do you harbor any doubt that he will return to his pig-eating ways? And, having pledged himself to the barbecue lifestyle, do you doubt that he will, eventually, throw himself on the sour mercy of the court coals?






Addendum: The law firm of Chix, Swine, and Bovine espouses a similar legal philosophy. "Because Bad BBQ is Downright Criminal." It's nice to know the animals take such an interest in the craft of it.

Clovis BBQ Championship

Three explanations for these pictures come to mind:

• The Clovis BBQ Championship pig is having Matrix-style illusions of experience while his paralyzed body lies in a torpid, pre-barbecue state.

• The clovis BBQ Championship has something to do with pigs given once-in-a-lifetime experiences before they, you know... die?

• Someone finally invented fantasy camp for "food" animals.

Soaring abve California in a hot-air balloon? Rodeo-ing on horseback? Whatever the explanation, this pig seems to be having the time of his life! What's next? Scuba diving? Rollercoastering? Bushwhacking through Amazonia à la Indiana Jones?

We won't begrudge the pig his light-hearted adventures. After all, his imminent death has been foreseen, a death which will find him beset by the souls of all those kinsmen whose deaths he encouraged.

Let him have his (probably fictitious) fun. He won't have many happy days where he's headed.