Spammy Fortified Turkey Spread

If there's anything less appetizing than a spreadable turkey paste, it's Spammy, the turkey destined to be enpasted, reminding us of his richness and nutritional value.

Glory be! Spammy Fortified Turkey Spread gives us both in one product!

The good-hearted Spammy, he of undeniable rico y nutritivo siempre qualities, was brought into being by the Hormel corporation to fight hunger in Guatemala. As such, he was born of the finest intentions. It's his motives we question. Is he driven to relieve hunger or merely to get himself eaten? Six of one, half dozen of the other, we suppose. Because either way, he winds up in someone's stomach. For Spammy, it's a classic case of doing good while doing well.

(Thanks to Dr. Bea for the referral.)

Festival of Cruelty 17

Every few months, we leave the safety of suicidefoodism's comfy lies—"the animals want us to do to them what we want to do to them" chief among them—and descend into the dungeons of the truth. Finding there nothing soft, nothing easy, we hold out as long as we can before climbing into the light of lies above. (Our last visit into the darkness.)

Burnside BBQ: Burn the side, burn the front, burn the back. Burn it all. In for a penny, in for a pound. The worst part: The pig's got a napkin tied under his chin. When they said they'd be pleased to have him for dinner, he thought they meant something else.








El Pampero: Who says "food" animals are mistreated, forced to live without adequate space, mental stimulation, or medical attention? Jab! Take that! Jab! And that!

We know that El Pampero means "the one from the pampas," the great, grassy plains of Argentina. But we can't help wanting to translate it as "The Pamperer." That's how we imagine the hypo-wielding pig describing himself, with supervillainish sarcasm.



Law Dawg BBQ: More abuse of canine power. It's an unlikely trope: the uniformed dog or wolf—a law enforcement officer or a pilot or a chef—rousting the local pig populace. In this case, a good ol' boy sheriff ushers a pig into the paddy wagon for a bit of extrajudicial barbecuing.







SS BBQ Team: Although the aproned executioner adheres to a system designed to remove the stink of patronage and caprice, still the deck is, shall we say, stacked. It's a sure thing: someone's going to die. The concession the chef makes is a small one. After all, he doesn't really much care who's next. He knows he'll get around to killing and grilling each of them in turn.








Stu Pit: So much for the respect the barbecuing community professes for the animals their food used to be.

See you next time! (There's going to be a next time?!)

Pork Rinds, a retrospective

It's the quaintest obscurantism in the suicidefoodist canon: pork rinds. As though pigs are, what? Melons? Do melons smile like that? Dream or hope like that? Ha!

This rogues' gallery of fiercely oblivious spokespigs represents a soaring low-point in the annals of meaninglessness. Somehow—and we agree that this lacks a consistent logic—the sight of pigs extolling the virtues of their own fried skin is worse than pigs talking up their own cooked meat. It's more desperate. More depraved.

The very idea of pork rinds is so revolting, it's a wonder we haven't discussed them more often. In fact, the last time was more than eight months ago. So.

Welp! No more stalling.




























































The entire breadth of pigkind has turned out to support the proposition that their skin makes a convenient and appetizing snack. The top-hatted captain of industry, the dancing fool, the simple country soul, even the cowboy atop his docile flying buffalo—all pigs, from the lowliest to the loftiest, give the nod to pork rinds!







Addendum: If you can bear it, revisit our discussion of the most horrendously named product in the field of pork skin offerings. Yes, even worse than Microwave Pork Puffies (see above), but just by a hair.

Chipotle Revolución

Some revolutionaries burn with a fire only justice can douse. Some revolutionaries bristle with an anger only freedom can soothe. Some revolutionaries ache with shattered hearts only the truth can heal.

And then there's this bunch of luke-warm embarrassments.

El Pig's mild manifesto:

¡Viva la Revolución!

Okay pigs, it's time for us to get together and start fixing this system. We see the way that our pig friends get treated at the factory farms. And it's time we fight so all pigs can have the same rights we have!

No more tight, confining pens! No more antibiotics or non-vegetarian feed!!!!!!!!

We can do it!

Yours truly,
el Pig

We want equality, and we want it now!

P.S. Clear your calendars for next months (sic) talk-n-trough mixer.

Hardly the most rousing sentiment. He could call for anything on behalf of his imprisoned brothers and sisters. Anything at all. But he aims so low it's a wonder he bothers aiming at anything at all. The right not to be killed and eaten? Where is that on his list of demands?

Oh, we can understand the desire to end so-called factory farming. It's just that, when "fixing the system" means El Pig lodges a request for more comfortable shackles, we think his movement needs a new leader.

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







Addendum: You're reminded of these patsies, aren't you? And these, too? We understand.

Addendum 2: Another "food" animal revolutionary.

Bodega González

It's like the world's most famous pig and this diabolical ham are having a suicide-off!

His hand on his hip—a casually spiteful gesture—he slices and slices.

Slivers of his long-ago-living flesh slowly fill the platter, and his leer only becomes more and more unnerving. Just who is he avenging here? Who is the target of his rage and self-loathing? Is he giving himself what he imagines he deserves, or is it all about you? Is he trying to show you just how much you've hurt him?

We could never hope to tease apart the tangled threads of his dysfunctional motivation, but we do know it's been a good long while since we've seen a ham with this much raw, seething anger.

Carnitas Vicente

While the dining masses gather outside, the pigs don't bother fleeing. They don't stake out hiding places in los baños. They don't do anything! Correction: They do one thing. They sing.

With their serapes, they scoot up to the little mariachi on the crate, and they croon. They croon a love song dedicated to that blessed day when the sainted chef will come for them, when their turn at last arrives.

The big one—el cerdo rosado—looks impatient. Angry, even. "We're wasting time," he seems to be thinking, "when we could be getting cooked!"

After the song is finished, hold onto your pesos. If you want to reward the singers for their performance, have a chat with the chef instead. Put in a good word for the pigs. Get them added to the menu.

Festival of Cruelty 12

We apologize, but it's time once again. Time to hold our noses and plunge into suicidefoodism's more honest sister city. (Do you remember the last time we visited?) It's not pretty. There are no convenient, comforting lies to hide behind. No illusions of consent. No coy, winking livestock. Here, all is coercion and force. Before we're done, you might remember suicidefoodism's deceptions with fondness.

Denny's Chicken Warning: Superbowl XLIV. The violence. The aggression. The intimidation. And that's just the commercials! (Thank you.) In this high-spirited Denny's spot, a burly, egg-loving chicken hater puts the birds on notice. He's coming for their eggs, and he hopes to terrorize them with the news. The rest is unrestrained hilarity as the chickens panic, the tears of mirth roll on, and a "good" time is had by "all."

(Thanks to Dr. KCinDC for the referral.)



Au Pied de Cochon: From Paris, City of Lights, land of sophistication and good taste, comes this ode to brutality. Three red-nosed fiends in chef's hats and aprons terrorize a pig, preparing to hack off his foot, riding him, staring at his mouth while, um, fingering a mysterious object of uncertain culinary importance. While all roads lead to this elegant establishment, bringing the hordes of refined diners, the pig and others like him are wrestled to the ground and slaughtered, on and on, jour et nuit.

(Thanks to Dr. Dan for the improved picture of this one.)


Meat Monster: The act of butchery has become so difficult, so gosh-darned tedious, that the barbekooks have devised an automatic, self-guiding killing mechanism. Just program your coordinates, and this thing will rush a panicked animal to your doorstep, ready to be hacked in half by steel jaws. Our machines are truly extensions of our will! The future is now!




The Taylor Corn & Que: The pig roasts alive while the bully steer lords it over him, a casual god of war, one blood-red tomato held aloft.





El Puerco Lloron: The weeping pig weeps for his life, for the lives of his family and friends, all the pigs who lived before him—briefly—only to be killed, cooked, and eaten. No weeping can undo his fate. His tears are only a seasoning for his carcass.

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








Duck in a Can: More gracious cuisine, this time in the form of a duck, body still stuck inside a tin can, fleeing his good-natured, amateur butcher. We know the man is a hobbyist, rather than a professional duck-killer, by his clothing. No white coat to denote his objective distance. The man is possessed by a demon of bloodshed. His tongue flaps from his mouth as he tears after the duck. He might even eat that thing raw.

Tacho's

Here we see the suicidefood equivalent of the inmates taking over the asylum:

The entrées have taken over the restaurant!

(Pay no attention to the minuscule, cleaver-wielding fellow in the gigantic sombrero. This is all about the animals.)

The steer is really putting his back into it, hoisting his friends on their trays, and, if the apron is any indication, holding down the fort in the kitchen. The disproportionate pig and chicken—too small and too large, respectively—are happy just looking tasty.

This vignette reminds us of Alan Weisman's World Without Us. Should humanity vanish, the animals will carry on, managing the eateries, keeping the ovens full. Of course, with no people to consume them, theirs will be an empty existence, void of meaning. All the time in the world to perfect themselves as the main courses, a status that gives them reason to live, but no one to consume them. It'll be like a Twilight Zone episode made real.







Addendum: Look! It's another animal waiter carrying out-of-scale companions on a tray! (A new motif? Will we be seeing more of it in the coming months?) This server offering his chicken and cow pals is the natty pig of Mighty Swine Dining, a name that raises the question: Is this dining on pigs, or dining in the manner of pigs? (Thanks to Dr. Charlie for the referral.)










Addendum 2 (4/10/10): The sense of scale seems a little better. But still.

Pollos Canto Alegre

Oh, what a beautiful morning! The sun is shining, the chicken parts are snug in their plastic wrap, and the birds are singing their canto alegre, their "cheerful song!"

Knowing that the limbs they used to call their own are now ensconced so lovingly, so antiseptically, so commercially, the pollos can't help warbling.

Her eyelashes flashing, this chicken gazes approvingly at the Styrofoam tray of legs. She can hardly wait until that's her down there, her own legs and wings efficiently and impersonally arranged and packaged.


And do you know what else makes chickens sing a cheerful song of grateful gladness?

The thought of hanging, plucked and processed, from the (dis)assembly line hooks while skilled inspectors caress them with rubber gloves!

They're just romantics at heart!