The Meaning of Snackrifice
4 March, 2009, 9:48 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

Like most Americans, I like to bond with a cartoon-ish personification of my food before I eat it. There is something very reassuring about an anthropomorphic version of a tasty meal petitioning to be eaten, or at least encouraging me to eat their fellow snacks. Talk about confidence; these spokes creatures are so sure of the promise of their own deliciousness they aspire to be a lower part of the food chain.


The alternative is a downer; how can I enjoy a meal if my food, even the non-meat variety, is pleading with me to spare its mock-life. That’s why I never liked Red and Yellow, the M&M’s characters. They fear being eaten, and are uncomfortably grim when the natural dynamic of their candy-to-human relationship emerges. It’s nonsensical; they are born and bred for consumption and I don’t enjoy feeling like a murderer every time I snack. They should take a lesson from California Raisinsand zippity-do-da their way into my mouth. I admire the dedication of Charlie Tuna, and the Foster Imposters. Their continuously thwarted attempts to be selected for slaughter, as God intended, makes me proud of my carnivorous intentions. They are pitiable though, not because of their death wish, but because they are never good enough to meet my standards. The are inferior stock, however it may hurt their self-esteem, their failure, reassures me of the quality of food that does make it to my plate. Sorry Charlie. In 1993, incidentally the same year the Foster Imposters debuted, Clucky the Chicken put them and their subsequent nineteen commercials to shame when he willingly submitted to his own nationally televised death. Held down and decapitated, his still living, severed and bleeding head gleefully narrated his ultimate fate: to be cooked, served, eaten and excreted. He took joy in the entire process. In a particularly touching moment, Clucky bit into his own flame broiled and perfectly seasoned flesh commenting, “hey, I’m good!” Sold! I never wanted a bite of chicken so much in my life. If only these acts of willing self-snackrifice could happen in reality. The 2007 Burger King campaign toys with the notion in its live action look at the family dynamic of cheeseburgers, depicting a father’s high aspirations for his son’s death-by-ingestion. But the attempt is ultimately too tongue-in-cheek, and hard to swallow. Serious geneticists, however, who would bring this scenario to half-reality are developing ways to genetically modify livestock into ambivalence. Not good enough, I say. Is it too much to want the dream of the Ameglian Major Cow, proposed by Douglas Adams. The lobotomized livestock we attempt to concoct are underdone in comparison to ones who, like Clucky, would eagerly and vocally consent to their being eaten. “May I urge you to try my liver, it must be very rich and tender by now, I have been force feeding it for months?” I’d feel a lot better about myself that way, and maybe then every meal would taste like Clucky.


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