Suicide Trapping: a digression

We apologize for the size of this image.

Can you make out the words? "HELPING LITTLE TRAPPERS BECOME A BIG SUCCESS." And T4K? That stands for "traps 4 kids." Traps. For kids. To trap animals. Dead. Their goal: "To preserve the trapping heritage and help our youngsters and yours to get off on the right start and out into the great outdoors."

Now do you understand why the raccoon is smiling and waving?

Not only does he get to succumb to the trap and part with his bothersome pelt, but he gets to do it all for the children. What an example the animals set for us!

Though he be dead and skinless, his passage from the conflicted world of the living is greased by a good deed. For does he not contribute his one small, murdered portion toward the great enterprise of heritage preservation? What is preserving his own life compared to that? Don't we all long to contribute to something greater than ourselves?

It brings peace to a humble raccoon. After it brings him death, of course.

Suicide Snacks: quickies 4

We're more than long-winded dissertations on the arcana of suicidal "food" animals. Occasionally, we like to offer up brief dissertationettes! Thus, this post, the fourth in our "quickies" series. (Please view the previous installment, won't you?)

How to account for the relentless cheerfulness of these shills in the face of their imminent barbecuing? Simple: they've been smoking. In the wiregrass. If you know what we mean.







Yes, this chicken, posing for the portrait that will be hung after he has been killed, butchered, and eaten, is certainly foolish.









Oh dear God.

Somehow, a hapless child has fallen into the lap of the Brew City BBQ's hellish mascot. Fresh from the flames, his crackling skin stained by blood-red sauce, he delights in the unholy state he has achieved.













This is PigOut-brand wild beast bait, a "wildlife attractant for pigs, deer & bear." And damned if the wild pig on the label doesn't look thrilled to be attracted. He'll gladly offer himself up to the hunters' arrows, bullets, and, um… swords (?) for a chance to taste the "ooey gooey concentrated" goodness! And do you get the feeling this whole business is feeding his ego a little? Okay, a lot?

Portuguese Hunting Rabbit

It could well be argued that this is not, in fact, an example of suicide food.

The rabbit is not offering himself up to the brave rabbit harmers, after all. He is merely engaging in a bit of stomach-turning playacting. Perhaps his deep-seated self-hatred compels him to take on the appearance and mannerisms of his oppressors. And is this really so far removed from the drearily typical pig, cow, and chicken—denizens of Man's dominion—who caper and preen and help to guide the daggers in?

Whatever the proper diagnosis, this picture was so horrible it made our brain fall out. As soon as we reinstalled it, we knew that we had a duty to include this rabbit. To share it, to broadcast it to a world benumbed to all but the most outrageous outrage.

Our taxidermy patient has been posed in the garb of the hearty hunter, consisting of a belt studded with shotgun shells. And possibly a green hunter's hat and (slightly less possibly) red hunter's socks.

Whatever the rabbit's intentions, he clearly demonstrates a serious mental impairment. He has thrown in with the shotgunners who delight in removing his kind from the woodlands. And who knows? Perhaps, before he became the conversation piece you see before you, he himself may have been shotgunned into eternity.

And now he stands in mute testament to the life-changing (!) power of the hunt.

(Thanks to Dr. Nick for the photo.)

Stone Ridge Meat & Country Market, Inc.

The Stone Ridge Meat & Country Market (in Wautoma, Wisconsin) is a regular animal-eater's Meat Mecca. Just look at this place!

They don't just sell every kind of meat under the Wisconsin sun—beef, pork, chicken, lamb, veal, fish, duck, game hen, turkey, goose, sausage, ham, bacon, bologna, etc. etc. etc.—they love meat. And it loves them back!

Case in point: their farmer mascot and his dear (but grubby), soon-to-be-dead-and-sausaged pig. The filthy pig is perfectly at home in the farmer's arms. Theirs is a friendship forged in the eater/eaten dynamic. Simple folk, yes, but simply happy.

It goes beyond men and pigs. Way beyond.

Any old feller can love a pig. It takes a real man to love a salami. Like this salami coddler*. What can we say? It's just the Stone Ridge style. It's a wondrous world of meat is what it is. Meat in all its forms, meat to satisfy every need, meat to fill every void.

This is the land animalvores dream of. Wisconsin might be America's Dairyland, but this one savory corner of it is America's Meatland: it's full of guys walking around caressing meat and soon-to-be meat. And would you believe? Using meat as recreational equipment!

Don't take our word for it. Witness the salami-used-as-an-inner-tube and be appalled awed.

We're not exactly sure what to think.

Stone Ridge appears to be some sort of suicidefoodism Ground Zero, the starting point for a new world order. A utopian neverland populated by meat—meat that wants to be eaten, coddled, sledded upon.

For all we know, one can come here and find meat that wants to be drafted into the military, sent on a scavenger hunt, and hollowed out and played like a trumpet. Meat with goals, meat with hopes, meat with silly, childish fantasies. Meat that demonstrates every propensity, exemplifies every personality, gives expression to every yearning wish! Meat, meat, meat! The sky's the limit in Wautoma!

And there's more!

Trust us when we say that we've shown you only a tiny fraction of what the Stone Ridge Meat & Country Market has to offer. For instance, year-round venison and wild game processing, complete with a good-natured buck who's only too happy to pose for the camera. (And presumably for the rifle blast, too!) That old joker—always getting in on the act.

At Stone Ridge, gunshots don't chase the game away. No, sir. They bring 'em running!

Yep! The animals in this joint are just dying to be killed!













*Salami coddler is the most offensive carnivory-related epithet we've come across since last week's bottomfeeder.

Kicking Bear

In Suicidefoodism's pantheon of scorned gods, the Keeper of the Sacred Bull's-eye occupies a hallowed niche. Along with the Complicit Animal and the Martyred Pig, the Keeper—the Targeted One—is an icon of the highest importance.

In his current incarnation, the Keeper is a white bear called (we have spontaneously decreed) Goofybear. It is Goofybear's solemn purpose to act as a foil for the hunter, to shore up the hunter's sagging self-image. "Nature's not so tough," he soothes. "Just look at ol' Goofybear! I'm not scary, right? Nope, just dumb and goofy. A big ol', dumb ol', goofy ol' bear! Go on. Take a shot! I'll even pose right here in front of my bull's-eye for you!"

What of the vaunted reverence the hunter claims to hold for his noble prey? Reverence? Does this bear—this kicked and ridiculed bear—look to you like an object of worship? No, for that is not how the Church of Suicidefoodism works. Its gods are anti-gods, idols made to be broken, smashed upon the altar.

Goofybear's purpose also includes bringing in the younger crowd. The Church needs new converts, you know. Today's secular culture is doing a poor job of indoctrinating children into the joys of hunting bears. (It's not just dead bears at Kicking Bear, though. No, sir! It's also deer, coyotes, turkeys... You name it!)

Goofybear's doing his part. Bless you, Goofybear.

Shootem in the Lips

Are you like us? Do you find the culture of hunting's power to fascinate equaled only by its power to frighten? This fascinating, frightening image comes to us from the Shootem in the Lips decoy, duck blind, and bird-shooting company. They specialize in items designed to help you (well, no, perhaps not you) blast ducks and geese into the Great Beyond before they know what hit 'em.

Note that SITL dispenses with hunting's tiresome litany: stewardship of nature, blah blah blah, keeping balance in the environment, blah blah blah, deep and abiding respect for the animals on which we depend...

No, they replace all that hogwash with a boldly stated desire to trick ducks into coming close and then shooting them in the face.

But wait! Before we malign the unsportsmanlike sportsmen of Shootem in the Lips, we should remember that the duck in their logo is in on the fun. He (yes, he—this is a red-blooded mallard) has done himself up in candy-apple red lipstick, to provide a can't-miss target for even the poorest marksman.

He thereby enters the annals of suicidefoodism as our first example of the Complicit Animal, Hunting Division. We've seen self-grinding and self-saucing pigs before, but this is the first "game" animal to make it easy on his killers. Nice job, Shootem in the Lips duck!

Coffeepot High Country Outfitters, Inc.

Are we here afforded a glimpse into the strange territory of hunterism? Has this scene ever unfolded in our actual land, the land we confidently refer to as Reality?

Yes, yes, deer have been hunted (have they ever!) and strung up. We will even concede that shapely Western-style ladies have brought down their noble prey with help from high-powered scopes.

What convinces us that we are viewing a scene from some fairyland is the attitude of the deer. Dead, dangling from a tree (?), he smiles. "All's fair in love and war," he might be saying. "Even the use of the high-powered rifle and telescopic sight. No complaints here!" He is grateful to have given his life for such an honorable cause: the, um, slaughtering of deer by... amply behatted, bebooted, bebosomed gun bunnies.

These are truly suicidefoodism's happy hunting grounds. What are we saying? Happy? These hunting grounds—these hallowed groves—are positively ecstatic! The huntresses are out in force, the rope is strong, and the bullets will never run out!

Suicide Whaling: a digression

On September 8, five members of the Makah Nation took it upon themselves to kill a whale, in what seemed at first blush a lame effort to revive or reconnect with ancient ritual.

Now we know the truth. The whale was a willing sacrifice. Says The Seattle Times:

Around 9:30, the crew saw another whale. This one, about 40 feet long, surfaced and came to the two boats.

"It chose us," Johnson said.

Into the animal's flesh, crew members plunged at least five stainless-steel whaling harpoons and four seal harpoons "so we wouldn't lose it," Johnson said. They then shot the whale with a gun powerful enough to fire a slug four miles.

(Photo of the satisfied whale beneath jubilant hunters © Alan Berner/The Seattle Times.)

Suicide Wildlife: a digression

Nationwide, a recent Associated Press story informs us, the animals are suffering. The reason for the animals' misery and low morale could make sense only to disciples of suicidefoodism. Or to regular readers of our work, who should, by now, have grown accustomed to the movement's reflexive distortion of reality and perversion of logic.

The problem, the injustice that has wildlife across this great nation bemoaning their fate, is a lack of hunters and fishermen. (Read it again if you like. It won't matter.) Yes, our wildlife is despondent because a shortage of people doing their level best to kill them means less money for wildlife and habitat protection.

Only suicidal animals can think this way. Or… is it possible that the keepers of wildlife are putting these twisted words in the animals' mouths?

Turkey Track Club

Is it just that hunting is beyond us, that we find its culture and conventions perplexing? Does the image to the right resonate with anyone? Who is this turkey supposed to be?

What it looks like to the hunting-averse:

Some turkey with a comb-over trying to recapture his misspent youth hits the trail with his sunglasses—the "cool" kind with the cord in back, to keep the things on your head—and his black tee. He'll take whatever scraps the gang deigns to part with, so long as he can be one of the guys, if only for a few, fleeting hours. And—this part is crucial—even if his participation takes the form of target.

Maybe it's a mid-life crisis. Maybe it's some nagging identity issues. Maybe his wife has left him. Who knows what drives a turkey to such lengths?

Whatever's behind it, he set the alarm for 5:30, packed up the truck, and got ready to dodge bullets until around noon. Of course, there was always Plan B: get pumped full of birdshot, plucked, roasted, eaten, and excreted. Hey, all for one and one for all, right?

Of course, this only renders the whole affair more pathetic than it would otherwise be. Start with a slow, flightless bird. Throw in the bird's desperate desire to pal around with you, and you're left with a sad charade that merely underscores the bankruptcy of the hunt.

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.)

Bucksnort Resort

You say you need the consent of the animal you plan on shooting dead? The Bucksnort Resort has you covered! (No, not covered in the sense of "protected from being fired upon." That would be silly.)

The deer is giving you his permission, by means of the internationally recognized thumbs-up.

(We're aware that deer do not commonly have actual hands. But... white gloves? Does that convey the proper outdoorsman spirit?)

But more than acquiesence, he's giving you his approval. That sporty wink seems to say, "You got the right idea, Jack! Take your best shot!" Shooting this fine ten-pointer requires only a steady hand and the continually burning need to prove one's shaky manhood. The universe has given the go-ahead. Nothing's holding you back, you lovers of nature, you maintainers of ecological balance, you!

Understand: the buck is not merely a symbol of the wilderness you might experience at the Bucksnort. He is presented explicitly as prey and thus a potent ambassador from the rough and ready land of suicide food.


Regrettably, the resort's website neglects to anthropomorphize the other prey to be found at Clam Lake. We must make do only with photographic representations of the easy marks:





Can't you just imagine how effective a cartoonified version of that bear could be, his lolling head propped up in death? Such a missed opportunity! To have Ol' Droopy Bear and Gaspy the Fish welcoming one and all to share in the resort's hospitality.

(Thanks to Dr. Mrs. Suicidefood for the referral.)