Holy Chuck Burger

Holy Chuck is working the symbolism hard. Both the sacrificer and the sacrificed, he is the perfect icon for a cruddy ethos.

Biblically speaking, whose head winds up on a plate? That would be John the Baptist. And who was responsible for that head finding its way there? Salome, step-daughter of Herod.

Both wrestle for a toehold within the figure of Holy Chuck. The innocent and the guilty. The accuser and the accused. The victimized and the victimizer. She who, triumphant, holds aloft the severed head, and the former owner of that head. All—each thing and its opposite—can be found in Holy Chuck. It's as though everything, every impulse and every impulse's obverse, ratifies the proposition that cows are to be eaten. Cows, which are, after all, sanctified stuff, holy chuck (the cut between neck and shoulder blade). She is simultaneously mere matter and the moral agent who transformed herself to mere matter, thus removing her own moral agency. It's a neat trick.

So eat! Engage in the sacrament of boviphagy. There's no way it can't be pure and good.

Addendum: It's Guidi Reni's Salome with the Head of John the Baptist (circa 1630), via Wikimedia Commons.

Turkey Farmers of Canada

You know those hilarious "Eat mor chikin" cows? (Hold on. We have to stop laughing. Almost. Just a sec. Okay. We're good.) Those scamps are "funny" because they are desperate to avoid being killed and eaten. They're just like people, what with their instinct for survival and their fear of pain. It's adorable!

This tom here is humorous in a whole different way. A whole different way we've only seen about a thousand times before.

Like the cows, the Canadian turkey edits a sign to upend the status quo. Of course, the system he wants to topple is the barbecue orthodoxy, which holds that turkeys aren't suitable ingredients. So you can understand the urgency.

The turkey derives meaning only from his desirability as a foodstuff. His one-bird crusade may seem quixotic. Irrational. Stupid. Insane. (We could go on.) But it's really the logical outcome of living in greater Suicidefoodistan.

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

Franks & Toppings

Salmon: We're on, guys! We're on!

Cow: Hello!

Chicken: Welcome! We're the Franks & Toppings Boys, and we're happy you could come!

Salmon: And we're happy to bring you the Franks & Toppings message! Isn't that right, Chicken?

Chicken: You know it, Salmon! Franks & Toppings provides such a wonderful service to the folks in southeast Texas. It's a privilege to die, knowing we're so delicious—

Cow: Privilege to what?

Chicken: —and organic!

Cow: It's a privilege to what?

Salmon: You're stepping on his line again.

Cow: I know, I know, but did he say it's a privilege to die?!

Salmon: It is a privilege to die! That's why I hired someone to help me into this tux.

Chicken: Look, can I keep going?

Salmon: Keep going.

Cow: What's happening?

Chicken: That's right, Cow. We are lucky to die for such fine fare!

Cow: I didn't say that!

Chicken: Frankfurters, burgers, grilled salmon sandwiches, and more!

Cow: I never said that!

Salmon: And because it's organic, you can feel good about eating us.

Cow: You're sick.

Chicken: Good question, Cow. Yes, the talented cooks at Franks & Toppings will make your flesh even tastier with a wholesome selection of fresh toppings!

Cow: (sobbing)

Salmon: Get hold of yourself! Say the thing about grass-fed beef.

Cow: About…?

Salmon: Grass-fed beef! Like the picture!

Cow: Where the hell did you get that? I didn't pose for that! What the hell's going on?

Chicken: Ha ha! Good one, Cow. They should listen to our jingle!

Salmon: That'll get your toe tapping!

Cow: (teeth chatter)

Chicken: And your mouth watering!

Cow: Oh god oh god oh god.

God Burger

A startling artifact from the Far East. Its meaning is puzzling, to be sure. Is it, in fact, an example of culture misappropriation? An innocent mistranslation? Mimetic crossed wires?

If you ask us (and we are specialists), the people at EngrishFunny.com have it all wrong.

Godburger isn't evidence of mangled English. No, this hamburger is God. Okay, okay, perhaps he's only one god among many. We can't pin down the ecclesiastical nuances, but we maintain that the distinction is irrelevant.

The burger is supernatural. Clad in naught but a lettuce breechclout and comically oversized footwear, Godburger—He of the Shiny Bun—is the perpetually satisfied sacrifice. Thumbs-upping into eternity, he offers himself again and again, ever-rebirthing himself anew. He promises life—he guarantees and sustains it—by delving deeply into the magic of death.

What We've Been Missing 4: a digression

Truth be told, we only seem confident. Every few months, in the middle of the night, when the wind is full of questions, we wonder. We doubt. What if? What if we had stayed with the flock, living as the flock, eating as the flock? Oh, what treasures we could have savored!

And so, again, as we last did here, we embark on a tour of our own Gallery of Regret.

As always, the following dishes were all prepared by professional dish preparers.

We're not sure what this culinary mishmash is, but we're assuming Knuckle, Chicken Skin, and Month-Old Meat Surprise.










An ear in licorice gravy? A whole curried snout? A diseased lung?

No, silly, it's feijoada pig foot!









A wound on a bun.










Whatever this is, it doesn't appear to benefit from further inspection. In fact, it should come with titanium bun-locks. Those exist, right?

Our Fragile Mental State: a digression

You see it too, don't you? Don't you?

It's not just us, right?

You see it there, in the art on the P.O.'s Burger and Root Beer sign. Just tell us you see it!

We were right about all those pigs, weren't we? All those pigs showing up again and again? A parade of duplicates, a nightmare of conformity.

We didn't make them up, did we?

And, sure, we see them when we shut our eyes. Sometimes they're hiding around corners, or under the tables in the cafeteria.

Or in the fogged-up mirror after we step out of the shower.

We've been doing this a long time.

We've seen a lot. We've seen too much. Every form of debasement. Ridicule. Contempt. The naked desire to find a helpless victim to kick. The whispered words that manage to make the kick feel like a kiss. We've seen it.

The point is, we know we're a little shaky lately. A little unreliable. We start at loud noises. A slammed door. A car horn. We're on edge.

But we're not crazy. Okay? You know? We still have a grasp on reality.

Just…

Just tell us you see it, too.

The smiling pig? In the hamburger patty and the tomatoes and the cheese and the lettuce?

Waiting. Lurking. Laughing.

That's a pig, right? He's in there, right?

Surf's Up, a retrospective

Surfing is the perfect sport to pair with the oblivion-loving cult of Suicidefoodism.

What better illustrates the go-with-the-flow attitude, the humility-in-the-face-of-larger-forces outlook of suicidal "food" animals?




These pigs derive their meager feelings of power through acts of submission. Only through the canceling of the self can the self flourish.

It's exactly the sort of paradox the Movement thrives on.






Surfing is just the right metaphor for the life of pigs brainwashed by the barbecuers.









The sacrificial pigs stay focused, never letting the harsh facts of reality intrude on the experience of the moment. For a spell, they can believe it's just them and the waves out there. Nothing else matters. Their profound futurelessness doesn't exist when they're one with the ocean. (Hog Island BBQ painting shown here.)




Even the hamburger is hangin' loose.










Addendum (12/23/09): More hanging loosely.














Addendum 2 (4/10/10): With his mother's ribs on a plate, his father's meat on a bun, and his honey waiting for him on the beach, Sooey rides the big one. The big one. You know. The Big One? Death?












Addendum 3 (4/25/10): Another radical and/or tubular pig.













Addendum 4 (7/06/10): It's the Surf & Snack burger's angry twin, Chicago's House of Ribs' burger (complete with the same spatula, shadow, and partial "hang loose" hand).









Addendum 5 (8/12/10): Bird, bird, bird! Bird is the word!















Addendum 6 (9/01/10): This little surfin' sow can even do it in cowboy boots and Daisy Dukes.

Addendum 7 (12/18/11): A pig desperate to recapture a youth (and palatability) he never really knew.

Officer Big Mac Valentine

Another food-based officer of the peace who is not up to the rigors of his occupation.

Lovestruck, he walks the beat. His mind is a million miles away. He should be keeping an eye out for punks boosting car radios and drug buys going down, but he's thinking about… love.

This hapless public servant is already servant to his heart. Which he is eating. For his valentine's benefit. (Have we been living under an affection-starved rock? Is "eating your heart out" an expression of love as well as envy now?)

Anyway, he's an ambulatory hamburger. Whatever heart he has is from the ground remains of a hundred different cows. We suppose this is really just testament to the desire, the sheer bull-headed drive, that some undead food has. Once killed, they strive to discover ever more absurd ways to sacrifice themselves.







Bonus! They're not suicide food, but these meat-related valentines are no less inappropriate:

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.

Burger King Cheesy Bacon Tendercrisp

Warning: The following discussion could lead to brain damage.

A certain recent advertisement has the power to send impotent rationality back to its hated realm.

Shocking disclosure: The ad is for a Burger King product.

Who would have thought Burger King, of all animal-adoring institutions, would inspire a degenerate advertisement?

The commercial in question is a shrine dedicated to debasement. Hogs scampering smilingly onto the killing floor? Chickens volunteering for target practice? Steers enamored of their own enslavement? Ho-hum. What commonplace perversion. We have opened files on hundreds of those animals.

No, Burger King gives us a real pro, a true believer, a hard-core devotee of the suicidefoodist movement. On to the commercial:

A nebbishy nobody enjoys a burger in his car at the local Makeout Point. He is alone. This is merely the first horrific detail. (Does he love his sandwich? You know, love love it? Sexually?) Before we can ponder that for too long, a cow appears in the headlights. The man is nervous. The cow is an avenging spirit, sent to cast the cow-eater into fiery torment for his vicious crimes against—

No. She's there because she's… jealous. The man has betrayed her trust by having sex with eating the meat of another. Yes, the cow's rage is the rage of the jilted lover. Hell hath no fury like a woman cow scorned uneaten. Aglow with righteousness, she exacts vengeance by ramming the man's car—with him in it—over a cliff.










To make sure you get the right message, the announcer intones: "Chicken so good, you'll cheat on beef."

This is the vilest conflation of sex and violence we have ever seen. There's nothing for us to do now but vomit.

(Thanks to Drs. Jared and Mary for the referral.)