Sauced Pigs Bar-B-Que

We love animals-as-food punning. Ask anyone. (Exhibit A, and Exhibit B.)

These two pigs are sauced, you see—drunk on the glory of their impending deaths. They're also sauced, as in slathered with flavor-enhancing goop.

Either way, we can see they're feeling no pain. (That part comes later.) Right now, it's all about camaraderie, happy wishes for an eventful future, and the profound satisfaction that comes from fulfilling one's dearest wishes. That they can experience their blossoming present and fructifying future together is icing on the cake. Or more like barbecue sauce on the hunk of pig meat.

Of course, the one on the right looks like he's had a touch too much camaraderie and reminiscing about the paltry pleasures of living.

Addendum: More sauce-related wordplay, this time courtesy of a decapitated pig head wreathed in a bandanna of fire.

Mainely Grillin' & Chillin'

Lobster: Say, when you think about the Raitt Homestead Farm's Mainely Grillin' & Chillin' Country BBQ State Championship, what's the first thing that comes to mind?

Pig: Hard to say, Lob. I guess the grilling? Or maybe the chilling?

Lobster: They're both important aspects of the G&C festivities, that's for sure. But aren't you forgetting something?

Pig: No, I don't think...

Lobster: Come on, Pig. What's the best part? The Reason for the Season?

Pig: Um...

Lobster: There's the grilling. The chilling. And the...?

Pig: The killing!

Lobster: Now you got it!

Pig: If it weren't for us getting killed, none of the rest of it would be worth a darn.

Lobster: Too true.

Pig: And the spilling. Spilling our blood?

Lobster: Sure, I guess.

Pig: And the willing? Like, making out your will?

Lobster: Yeah, but it's not like we own anything to give away. It's borrowed time all the way! We can't even claim ownership of our bodies.

Pig: There's the Adirondack chairs, too. Can't forget them.

Lobster: They make the chilling so much easier.

Pig: To us!

Lobster: To us!

*clink!*

BBQ Trophies

You are looking at a bunch of true believers. This Unholy Trinity has fully embraced their status as food. They have totemized themselves, solidifying their very objectness.

The point is that these animals have so thoroughly assimilated the very concept of their own worthlessness that they can appear—excited, eager, with fond wishes for a future constituting more of the same—as living embodiments of others' desires to eat them.

They do not merely offer their blessings on an endeavor dedicated to their destruction; they ratify the worldview and priorities of their destroyers. And so the cow represents herself as beef and the pig as ribs. They are just (temporarily) living stuff.

It is a curious phenomenon, this use of the animals' agency to reaffirm their lack of agency. Curious, but altogether commonplace.

Then again, it should hardly surprise us when animals this warped fail to appreciate the difference between prize-winner and prize.

Lord of the Ribs

At first we weren't sure whether Tolkien's timeless epic translated well to the world of barbecue. We knew the chicken was Gandalf, the cow was cast as a man of the Second Age (Elendil, presumably), and the pig was some Second Age elf (Elrond or Gil-galad, we assumed), but it all felt contrived. Not as contrived as other barbecue-related stretches we've encountered, to be sure, but where were they going with this? If the One True Rib promised to enslave the free peoples of Middle Earth, then our protagonists want to destroy it? And that's going to sell pig meat?

Then we realized we were looking at it all wrong. We were seeing the details but missing the big picture. For what is J. R. R.'s tale about? Beyond the comings and goings of bearded weirdos and a bunch of business about a giant, evil eyeball, it's a story about brotherhood and sacrifice. Brotherhood and sacrifice? That's the hallmark of modern "food" animals!

It all made sense! Who knows more about sacrifice and selflessness than cows, pigs, and chickens? Who is better suited to hit the battlefield of Dagorlad—also known as the backyard barbecues of North America—and offer themselves up for their friends? In this respect, all the animals are Sam Gamgees, bearing all our burdens, long-suffering, never questioning our motives or intentions.

Epilogue: Five minutes later it stopped making sense again.

Off the Hoof BBQ Crew

Beneath a legend made of bone, gristle, and blood, they disport themselves. The pig and chicken, their faces bearing smiles that shade into idiotic grimaces, play on their madhouse jungle gym.

Is anything about this image natural?

The way the animals hang from the steer's horns, the way the steer, looking as though he's gone five rounds with a pugilist, lets them—we are seeing the final stages of life's miserly drama.

If we were to try to name their emotions, we'd say the pig displays jolly resignation, the steer glum incredulity, and the chicken sheer lunacy.

Are they hanging above steaming cauldrons? Are their unseen lower regions still there? If they were gone, having been gnawed or hacked off, would it only add to the animals' fun?

(Thanks to Dr. Lance for the referral.)

2nd Annual Holy Smoke BBQ

More nautical fun from Maryland!

Look at this scene of gleeful mayhem—all in the name of the 2nd Annual Holy Smoke BBQ of Easton, Maryland—and see how many adjectives come to mind.

If you're like us, awesome, cool, extreme, and crazy rise to the surface right away.

But keep looking. Concentrate. Ponder the mysteries of the universe, the inexplicable unfolding of things. Breathe. Wait.

Has it dawned on you? The most natural way to describe soon-to-be-barbecued animals enjoying the most enlightening thrills? The word that best describes these boating beasts soaking up the rays as though their lives weren't about to end in a spectacularly awful way?

The word, friends, is holy.

Partners in Swine

So now the conceit is that the "food" animals aren't hopping into the flames out of love for us, because this is what they think we want.

It appears that the Partners in Swine are engaging in a reckless rampage of "slow grilling a mighty tender piece of pork" against our wishes, in violation of our laws.

Their striped convict get-ups suggest we are dealing with recidivist suicides at that! They were already locked up, then, in protective custody perhaps. But they escaped, to pursue their dream of dying.

They're not doing for us; they're doing it in spite of us?

Kippenhandel Heindryckx

Belgium, you crazy little country, you've done it again! It's always a blow to one's American pride when some Old World obscurity (we apologize) shows us how it's done.

Belgium's 11,780 square miles put her at about the size of Maryland. Now, sure, Maryland has plenty to boast about, not the least being this and this, but pound-for pound, Belgium is a major player.

This wrapper here is a doozy. It has recast the horror of seeing one's fellows immolated as an evening's comfy entertainment. The chickens gather around—are they in a clubhouse?—and plop down and just... relax.

Again (and again, and again), they don't tune in to a closed-circuit TV providing them with up-to-the-minute intelligence about the guards' whereabouts so that they might effect their escape. They sit there watching the boob tube! And what's more, it's not even some kind of keep-the-natives-fat-and-ignorant fare like, say, Belgium's Best Coops or Cock-a-Doodle Doofus! No, it's the brutal truth, the very thing that should have the power, the moral authority, to get them running for their lives.

Neither in Belgium, nor in Maryland—nor, indeed, in any place we have yet become acquainted with—can the animals be bothered.

("What's that? The corpses of our brothers and sisters slowly turning in the flames? The very flames to which we ourselves will be consigned tomorrow? What of it?")

"Hey! Keep it down! This is the good part! The skin's splitting open!"

("This really isn't a good time. Listen, I'll talk to you tomorrow. Catch me in the morning.")

It's a small world, after all.

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

South Park Rib & Wing Challenge

Again the idols are cast down. Knocked from their pedestals, they are dashed to the floor, ensmithereened. First the pirates were emasculated. Then the bikers. In turn, the cowboys, the boxers, the superheroes, and still other he-man archetypes were fettered and enfeebled.

So it is with a mild sense of disgust—yes, we still have a supply of disgust, even if we ration it with more care than in the past—that we take in these (ahem) rockers. When such stalwart symbols of reckless hedonism and bull-headed individuality can be so thoroughly tamed, we are all diminished. Even the power of freedom—the very possibility of defiance—is tenuous.

There they are, crooning into a microphone-bone, bashing out power chords on a meatar (not the first we've seen, mind you: check out addenda 7 and 9 here), and just generally uncooling up the place.

Instead of singing for their supper, they and the other rockers we've presented over the years sing to become supper. Instead of a thorn in The Man's side, rock 'n' roll becomes The Man's servant. Instead of issuing a challenge to the status quo, howling with the pain of the oppressed, the hungry, the stifled, the shut-down, the fed-up, the bored, and the ignored, they bow at the waist.

Stockcar BBQ

Once again, the animals have a message for us: When we work together, all our dreams are within reach.

This pit crew has worked together, trained together, striven together. And now they're putting it all on the line. Together.

Each has his role to play. Engine adjuster. Driver. Barbecue sauce supplier.

And they will win. They will see that checkered flag and they will cross that finish line first.

In other words, they will die and get eaten. Together.

You're beautiful, guys.

Hava BBQ

What more do they need to do?

They get out on the lake, they manage to stand on the skis, and they show their stuff. For you. For you! To bring a little enjoyment to your life. To put a smile on your face. They just want to make you feel good.

But it's not enough, is it? What will it take for you to eat them? It's such a simple thing, such a small thing, isn't it?

Well, not to them it's not.

They're working. This isn't fun for them. This is their job and they do it well. You think it's easy to waterski when you don't have hands? When your legs end in trotters? Do you have any idea how much those custom skis cost? (Upwards up $800 a pair.) This doesn't even take into account the boat, the moorage fees, the fuel. The permits! The photographer alone costs $300.

And all so they can make a living die.

What more do they need to do?

Wings Etc.

This one scores high marks for its insistence on underscoring our basic thesis:

These animals want to be here. They want to participate in institutions working hard to destroy them and all their kind. In the world they inhabit, struggling is unthinkable. It's not that resistance is merely useless. It's that resisting is—literally—unthinkable. It never crosses their minds. No matter what horrors await them, no matter how grisly their daily lives, they show up and punch in early. They are dedicated to this.

This mascot can fly a plane, for Christ's sake. If he wanted to make a run for it, he'd have no trouble getting away. Even on his own, he could probably flap his way over a fence or two. Well, he does have his way, and that's not what he wants.

Nope, he would rather they hack off his wings and fry 'em up.




In the restaurant's placating commercial spots, two chickens sit around shooting the breeze. They talk about their personal lives. They talk about menu changes. They talk about everything except the one thing you might expect: getting out of that deathtrap alive.

Doesn't even cross their minds.

(Thanks to Dr. Alan for the referral.)

New England Brisketeers

All for one and one for all! The timeless creed of the musketeer!

Never has an oath of friendship, loyalty, and duty meant so little.

For these brisketeers, the slogan can be translated thus: "Death for each of us! Death for all of us!"

It really gets you right here.







Addendum: How can this be only the second example of Three Musketeer-related suicide food we've found? If ever there were a trope pleading to be established and nurtured, it's the band of rollicksome swordsmen dedicated above all to their own destruction.

Beef-A-Rama

If there's one thing all cows can agree on—whether they be joggers, chefs, or breakdancers—it's the satisfaction that comes from identifying themselves as beef.

They're not really cows, you see. That's an illusion. They only look like animals in the role of athletes, food preparers, and artists whose medium is movement. What they really are is an ingredient, just a mass of substance to be used by someone else.

They have been reduced—they have reduced themselves—to the status of foodstuff, and they have never been happier. If they could only get past this troublesome pre-death stage, they would be happier still. For then their external selves would match their internal selves, and that's called harmony. Tranquility. Peace. Oneness.

In time, you beefs. In time.