Hard Ball Farms

We're going to be honest. What really draws us in here is the stunning, totally unironic aptness of this place's name. Yes, there's the whole pig-with-the-cheap-crown angle. But after all this time, another pig seduced by the false promise of a better life—a life of clout and authority—hardly has the power to move us.

We've seen the Nahunta dupe, the Pork Palace pawn, "King" Richard, the Pink King, and the Brooklyn Boob. And that's just the pigs! So forgive us our lack of enthusiasm.

But the name. Hard Ball Farms. Could the pigs hope for a clearer signal that the good life is over for them? The name conveys the idea that they will now be treated with no tenderness or consideration. As though now they'll learn the true meaning of ruthless.

No matter. The pig doesn't mind. The pig never does.







Addendum: And don't forget the Festival on the "Noose" River. Perfect!

United Steaks of America

Take that, you countries that aren't America!

The U.S. is so kick-ass, so totally awesome, that even its food is proud! Honored to be raised in stinking pens—treated like meat cogs in a machine manufactured to chew them up and spit them out as stuff to buy and eat—the steers and pigs and chickens cheer on the home team. No divided loyalties for them. No conflicted feelings. Being American food is never having to doubt.

And these animals have some weight to throw around, make no mistake. Look at those biceps on the walking collection of American steaks. Check out the determined, clenched jaw. Dude could take a mother out. But like other tamed Goliaths, he wouldn't dream of upsetting the status quo. No sir, he's a good American "food" animal, and he knows his duty: To die and be eaten for the greater glory of the U.S.A.!






Addendum: U.S.A.! U.S.A.!

$30,000 Backyard Beach Barbeque and Bands

They strut, they flex. They try to look their best. This is what all the hard work was for. The early mornings. Toughing it out through the pain. Going on in the face of doubt. Would they ever measure up? Would you ever look their way and give them the nod?

On the sand, they strike their poses, pop their muscles, show off the merchandise.

Never forget that these animals see themselves as objects. Not objects of admiration or inspiration. Not sex objects. (Let other animals—lots and lots of them!—inflame our sexual hunger.) No, they see themselves as food objects whose purpose is the stoking of our simplest hungers.

We confess almost total ignorance of this event and its $30,000. But we know enough to know the animals won't be seeing a penny of it. They know it, too. They're not in this for the money. It's something deeper for them, something more immediate. It's about the affirmation that they matter, the assurance that we care about them. Care enough to eat them, that is.

She Thinks My Slabs Are Sexy

No, we don't know who "she" is who thinks his, um, slabs are sexy. Does it matter? The pig takes pride in his ribs as edible objects, and whether he imagines a potential mate or consumer relishing his ribs hardly seems to matter. And this, of course, presupposes that his lover and consumer are different people. Alas, we have learned to our endless regret that the two categories—predator and paramour—need not be mutually exclusive.

So. Fine. Whatever.

The pig is impressing his lover-eater. It's really the central theme of suicidefoodism, played out in the form of a blue collar pig with well-defined anatomy.

His masculinity, his fitness as a sexual partner, and his ultimate purpose as a commodity—all are achieved simultaneously. He is a stud! He is a virile foodstuff! He is all things to all people! Or at least to all people who want to eat him.

Pigheaded BBQ

The pig's plan is finally bearing fruit. By finding a way to mate with miniature cows and chickens—thereby rendering their offspring blessed with the pig essence so prized (it would seem) by humans—he shares with the rest of creation the joy he has known so intimately.

It's a strange plan, admittedly, and it involves some irksome mutants, but whatever. Here's to the lovable crackpots who roll up their sleeves (or, in this case, tear them off), and get the job done!

We're not saying the pig is entirely altruistic, either. The wicked way he's looking at his feckless spawn does give one pause.

Well? What of it? Why shouldn't he get something in the bargain—in this case, the joy of killing and cooking—when he's giving so much? He, who made the lowly cows and the dim chickens more palatable, more desirable as living, breathing pre-food. More piglike.

Is he not their god? Do they not owe him everything? All the mightiest gifts—theirs!

Full of Bull Famous Roast Beef

Look, you do not want to cross this guy.

He could tear your arms out of their sockets and club you to death with them. You see those muscles? Steer's ripped. All-natural, Grade A, bad mother.

This one guy? He crossed the bull and got messed up. I mean, dude couldn't walk for a month. He got beat down.

Just be cool, give him what he wants, and you'll be fine.

What do you mean, what does he want?

He wants to make you a sandwich, fool. Of himself. For you to eat. Just order and take it and go.

Of course, in passing, you might wonder what all that other roast beef is full of. Focus!

Okay, okay. Take it. We're out of here.

Mighty Swiners

Up in the sky! Look! It's a shill! It's a plant! It's the Mighty Swiners!

Bearing their magic talismans—the tongs, the barbecue brush, the checkered flag—the caped co-conspirators streak through the skies. Their mission: to, um, get eaten. It's not actually very superheroic when viewed in the cold, clear light of day.

Remember, these are merely the latest examples of the suicidefoodist version of the superhero archetype (last seen here). As such, they strive to protect neither the populace of the cities they call home, nor even themselves. They are dedicated not to justice, or even justice's disfigured cousin revenge, but instead to their own death and dismemberment. Don't expect any comic book or big-budget theatrical spin-offs.

Jacked Up BBQ

It's been more than three years, but we've finally found the spiritual brother of this furious fellow.

Jacked Up "Jack" BBQ is fueled by a rage so powerful it overwhelms his desire to live. It flames and flares.

He is irate at you, himself, life. Everything. It is all infuriating and foul. His anger torments him and twists him and transforms him into something his mother would never recognize.

He channels his hatred into the perfection of his physical form. He can thank his wrath for those chiseled arms, that heaving chest, those popping veins.

He hoists the jugs of barbecue sauce—the suicidefood equivalent of lugging around your own tombstone—and dreams of the day when it will all, finally, be enough.

When he can just… stop. And breathe. And take a moment to die. And get eaten.

Fightin' Cock Roaster

It's been more than two years since we first got to know prizefighting "food" animals. It's nice to see that their delusional compulsions burn as brightly as ever. They still pump iron and primp in front of full-length mirrors so they can face death like the warriors of old.

Of course, this one smiles a little more than the Spartans probably did. Then again, he's got more to be thankful for. Remember, the only way he loses is if he avoids ending up roasting in some oven somewhere. So the pressure's really off.

Which is how he can afford to step lightly down his lightning bolt staircase (?) right into the ring, where he'll take a dive midway through the first round.

Thunder Smoked

We are witness to the birth of one of the Movement's foundational myths, something that could finally make sense of the senselessness we have grudgingly accepted.

On the third day, when the Raven did alight upon the Crag, Hog-Thor beheld the sacred Crucible.

Then did Hog-Thor summon forth the many-tined Forks, summoned he them from the Thunder.

Kindled the Flame did Hog-Thor, kindling it with his enchanted Tongs.

Hog-Thor looked within the Smoke, and a Vision did he see.

Ranks of hogs, their Tusks like gleaming Blades, leapt atop the Coals. Again did Hog-Thor bring down upon them the Lightning that they may be cooked, their skin burnished like unto gold. Smoked by the very Thunder, the pigs found passage to the Lands of Joyful Rooting.

And even now, these centuries beyond, the pigs still dream of Death with Glory. Only the bravest, boldest, and best among them can hope to be cooked in Hog-Thor's smoking Oven.

When you see a Star, do not look away. For that is a fallen hog, and he smiles on you.

(Thanks to Dr. Bea for the referral.)

Arbor Acres

At Arbor Acres, you can succeed. You can achieve your fullest potential and be the chicken you were meant to be.

Climb the podium to the Winner's Roost, Mr. or Mrs. Gold-medal Poultry. Look down upon the weak, the scrawny, the stringy and inedible.

Your comb sculpted into a fleshy wreath of laurel leaves, your biceps bulging, your inferiors wither in your shadow.

Your breast is tender, your drumsticks succulent. The others are all feathers and feet, but you! You are somebody! You are the Ideal Fowl!

"Who's the boss now?"

You are, champ!

Now how about a victory lap through the scalding tank, and then we'll get you dismembered.

(Thanks to Dr. Bea for the referral.)

Angry Food, a retrospective

Oh, we've seen angry "food" animals before. (Here, for instance. And here.) It has only now become apparent that those examples were the opening salvos in a new offensive. And when we say offensive…

It's really the latest variation in the Submissive Dominant theme.






These seething "food" animals! How they bristle! How they fume! Yet they renounce the power of their misdirected rage. Like the towering Submissive Dominant who succumbs to his flimsy prison, these angry, angry animals are at a loss.







Take these chumps, aligned in anger on behalf of their corporate master, A Better Butcher Shop. Consumed by fury though they be, they neither run nor fight. They surrender, for surrender, we are told again and again, is the natural inclination of all "food" animals. The violent animal, the enraged animal, the clever animal—they all live, and die, to serve.










Addendum: The Firebreathing Hog even has his own retinue of lookalikes: the Mr. BBQ Catering pig and the Billy Bones "Pork U Love To Fork" pig.

















Addendum 2 (11/21/09): Boy, once you start looking for something...










Hey, we've seen that angry chicken before!










Addendum 3 (2/20/10): The (second-ever) Troy (New York) Pig Out isn't for everyone.













Addendum 4 (10/03/10): More anger. (Thanks to Dr. Tamara for the photo.)