Hot off the heels of the end of the preceding film, “Sausage Party: Foodtopia” sees the culinary residents of Shopwell’s Market waging a deliciously devastating war on mankind for the crime of masticating them and turning them into food. When the dust settles, the food is victorious; nearly all mankind has been eradicated, and the brats and buns and pickles and potatoes can have the knock-down, drag-out sex party creators Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg presumably found so hilarious. Alas, they don’t know about water, so when a flood comes to melt, dissolve, and otherwise kill a significant portion of the Shopwell’s population, series heroes Frank (Rogen) and Brenda (Kristen Wiig) go out to find whatever humans may be left. Maybe someone can explain where all this water came from — or, at the very least, fix the roof of the decrepit Shopwell’s so the water can’t kill them from inside. 

It’s an idiotic premise, made even worse by “Foodtopia”‘s format: It feels like the script for a theatrical sequel was thrown into a taffy puller and extended to eight twenty-minute episodes, each of which is duller and more belabored than the last. As with the first film, the main ingredient in “Sausage Party”‘s kitchen is food puns: Kishka Hargitay, Iced T, an existential Jewish bagel named Sammy Bagel Jr. (Edward Norton, putting on his worst Woody Allen). Get ready for them to come fast and furious (oh, there’s also “fast and furious” jokes too), each groaner digging another white-hot icepick into your cerebellum. 

The plot, such as it revolves around the show’s deliberately off-putting, butt-ugly animation, eventually coalesces into creaky 2016-level Trump allegories (there’s a lying ORANGE politician named Julius (Sam Richardson) introducing capitalism to the sunny climes of Foodtopia’s socialist paradise!) and Frank and Brenda’s attempts to commune with a wayward human (Will Forte, once again the Last Man on Earth) who might be able to fix their human problems. But these developments feel phoned in, mere window dressing to get to the next food joke or classic-rock hit with lyrics replaced with aching food puns. Eat your heart out, Weird Al.