Rites of Spring: Reflections (On What I Can Remember)

April 17, 2011 By

Kid Cudi Free-Styling:
Oh Kid Cudi, when will you learn? Most of us are pretty white and just wanted you to play your hits. We don’t really understand free-styling, and even if we did, it’s hard to call what you did “free-styling.” You can’t just go up to the microphone and start saying incomprehensible bullshit and expect us to cheer. If you want to do that, you need to either first A. thank your haters for hating, or B. ask if any of us bought Tha Carter III. Another important thing for you to remember- you aren’t particularly profound when you talk. So, while we understand your need to meaninglessly proselytize (you are a rapper after all), we’d really appreciate it if you just spared us next time. Think of Winston Churchill’s famous quote, “If you’re an idiot you should probably shut the fuck up… chap.”

High School Dudes:
You all sort of look like douches. Especially that guy wearing the douche costume. Only a douche would do that.

High School Chicks:
I can’t believe these lines didn’t work- “So, when do you get your braces off?” “Seventeen? I used to be seventeen! What a funny coincidence!” “You’re mom isn’t coming to pick you up for fifteen minutes? That’s plenty of time for me.” The good news is that most of them looked stuck-up and had North Faces, so I’ll get another pass when they’re here at Vandy in the fall!

The National:
Who the fuck were those guys?! I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a band perform where most of the audience could reasonably say, “yea, I get more pussy than they do.” The lead singer looks like a cross between Richard Nixon and LBJ – if one of them was a ginger. Boom, you just figured out how to make two shitty presidents shittier. Come to think of it, William Henry Harrison got more play than these jamokes and he was tied up with pneumonia for most of his presidency (called a p-job). Besides being the audio equivalent to Unisom, The National specializes in Bar-Mitzvah’s fifteen years from now. I just wish Vanderbilt could have booked a headliner more exciting than my errands.

Krispy Kreme Veggie
Cheeseburger:
Goddammit America, this isn’t funny anymore. Yes, we’re fat, but we used be respectable and fat. We used to embrace our corpulence. Our attitude was fattitude, and everyone knew the chubby swagger we brought to the table. Besides being a little embarrassing, veggie burgers never taste great. The best a veggie burger can ever taste is “ok” by law of nature and all that is holy. How about this: next year, get jelly donuts filled with meatballs… or just get hot pockets and cover them in icing. Either one would be more respectable.

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Counterpoint: Sara Barelllileelilesss Is Not Hot.

March 25, 2011 By

The first thing you notice when you see Sara’s face is her nose. In fact, at first glance, you might mistake it for half of Adrian Brody’s nose. Sara’s shnoz got its start as a conveniently placed ramp in the Dukes of Hazzard. It then got its own romantic reality show, “The Smell of Love,” where contestants competed to have sex with Sara’s nose. For a brief stint in the early 90s, her nose got into some pretty heavy drug use, mostly banned nasal spray and powdered rhinoceros horn (called “crash” on the street). Her nose is clean now and currently tours with Sara; however, due to unrest in the Middle East, the US Navy is contemplating using her nose as a replacement for the aircraft carrier USS Ronald Reagan.
Sara’s songs mention love, and songs, and an unwillingness to write such songs about love for men.
Please don’t write me a love song. Would a truly hot girl really need to write someone a love song if she wanted to have sex with him? No. She’d just show up in their den, dressed in bacon underwear with a super-soaker containing the cheapest light beer available. She could get any man she wanted including some sort of Poseidon/George Clooney hybrid.
Sara goes past “plain” into “lifeless.”
When she smiles she looks straight malicious, similar to the “Unklehalamham,” a treacherous, grinning daemon, from Norse mythology. If Sara truly is this terrible beast, then we cannot wait for her to return our village and steal our children. She must be destroyed. I say we make the three-day trek, deep into the mountains, so we can kill the beast as it slumbers. Who’s with me?
I really don’t see how anyone could think Frida Kahlo was attractive. I meant, Sara. Wow, that’s embarrassing for her that I would do that. Maybe if her eyebrows didn’t double as the world’s second largest “fuzzy-caterpillar-conservatorium,” then I wouldn’t have mixed their names up.
Sara is really just that semi-attractive teenage girl from your high school that the dudes hung-out with because she was kind of cool (look at me, I can sing!). She got some play but mainly just because she was there not because she was a looker. Now she’s famous, and she’s probably still playing up a league. I can’t fathom waking up next to a make-up-less Sara Bareilles in the morning. That image has the sex appeal of Henry Kissinger sucking a Popsicle (shown in the film “The ‘Cold’ War: or ‘How I Learned to Stop Caring and Embrace My Inner Woman.”)
Even though Sara’s nose is currently aiding airstrikes in the Libyan revolution, her smile is reminiscent of demonic forces, and her eyebrows act as “Sunsetter” retractable awnings- I’d still do it. Why? Because when you look past all that stuff…she’s sorta hot…kinda…right?
Oh, and who the fuck is The National?

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Shit that Needs to Stop: A Good Ol’ Fashioned Rant

February 25, 2011 By

Vanderbilt, the “Kissam Experience” is bullshit.  What is there to experience, exactly, the smell of stale bong water and the sight of poorly cleaned jizz stains?  Calling it the “Kissam Experience” is some sort of cruel joke; it’s like the “Panama City Hepatitis-C Race for Hope,” which, might I add, no one goes to because everyone is too busy getting Hepatitis-C.  Vanderbilt advertising Kissam as an “experience” is an insult to real experiences everywhere.  Whether it’s getting mad XP after tanking 5000 damage, or learning that alcohol makes stuff better (but that it will also get you fired from Wendy’s after hiring a prostitute to dress up as Wendy, in an attempt to “increase sales”- which is code for your dick), your experience means less now by association.  The only thing anyone ever learns to do in Kissam is manage Qdoba infused bowel movements at 4 AM.  But even then you’re probably too drunk to find the commode, so you end up putting terrible results of “black or pinto?” on some poor janitor, who, let’s be honest, would love to beat the piss out of you.
3-D movies.  Call me old fashioned, but I like my movies 2-D.  If I had the option, I’d switch back to black and white.  Shit, while we’re at it, I don’t even know if sound is all that great either.  Sure, Avatar was cool – seeing aliens banging each other and recreating Fern Gully – but every time Michelle Rodriguez came on screen, I thought I was about to be eaten by a lesbian chupacabra.  For those of you who aren’t enlightened, “chupacabra” is the Mexican word for “Eva Mendes.”  Call me crazy, but if I wanted to see a director touch himself for two and half hours, I’d watch… dammit, why aren’t there any attractive female directors [insert misogynistic remark]?  Of course, now Justin Bieber has a 3-D movie, which I’m sure will serve as a masturbatory aid for teens and pedophiles everywhere.  What are we going to see in 3-D?  “Oh, I dropped my sippy cup!”  “Oh no!  His undeserved rise to stardom is coming right at me!”  Maybe I’m just jealous that he’s 16 and really famous and I’m not.  But he still looks like a bitch, and I don’t need another dimension to see that.
Towers Tunnel etiquette has been breached repeatedly as of late.  It used to be that people would go in there, advertise their stuff, and leave.  Their graffiti would be up there for a few weeks, and then some other event would come along and replace it.  It’s the circle of life, people.  How else am I supposed to know if the Blue Peacock Rave is still on or not  (cancelled due to fight between D-Man and “The Chill”)?  Now, everything is replaced so fast, none of it even matters.  Luckily, none of the stuff there really mattered anyway.  There are four basic categories of tunnel writing: random red 9’s, pleas for VSG votes, depressing shit about Tibet, and desperate chicks asking for formal dates.  First, if we’re putting stuff up about Tibet, why don’t we throw some other genocide stats up there?  After I stumble to the munchie-mart I only want two things: to hear about millions of innocent people being killed, and pizza rolls.  Honestly, no one is going to walk through the tunnel and suddenly become enlightened to the plight of the Tibetans, just like Jimmy doesn’t want to be your formal date, probably because he’s busy being prison-raped in the “Kissam Experience.”
Oh, and get off my lawn.

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Egypt: The Revolution that Shouldn’t be Televised

February 5, 2011 By

Egypt is in the middle of a revolution, which its people hope will bring democracy, justice, and a new leader to the region. The area hasn’t seen this much turmoil since the Hyksos rulers took over in 1700 BC, and we all remember how that turned out. It’s a landmark event for the Egyptian people, most of whom are in the streets protesting to have their “president” Hosni Mubarak removed from power. Hosni, or “Ho-Ho” as his friends call him, has been in charge for 30 years. In that time he has built no large cat-people and hasn’t even secured his god-status by making a huge geometric shape out of stone. For shame.
Mark us as not impressed. We’ve seen revolutions before, and this one gets a 3 out of 10. What sets this revolution apart from all the others? Frankly, it’s been done before, and done more impressively too.
The French did it back in the day by playing tennis and dressing up like women. They then guillotined (which is the French term for “to scald with soup”) their king, Napoleon. They then held hands across the country, symbolizing their unity, forming the “Maginot Line.” This line would fall apart and subsequently become synonymous with a very lewd sex act.
Russia had a revolution too. Back in 1919 the first member of The Beatles, John Lenin, decided that World War I was a drag. He therefore incited a revolt of the working class with his famous speech titled “Fuck you, this here is a revolution.” He would later convert the speech into a song, renaming it in the process. The Russians then assigned teams to one another; red and white. What happened next is known by historians as the “Hunt for Red October.” In October of 1921 all the whites hunted down all the reds, setting the stage for the Cold War, which looked something like the Battle for Hoth.
Even America beat Egypt to it. Back in 1776 George Washington decided that he didn’t want America to end up like Britain. He did not understand their comedy. When should he laugh? Is Ricky Gervais kidding, or just a dick? Is a joke about the relative air speed of various types of birds really that funny? He quickly made something up about taxes and pitched it to a group of nearby farmers. Soon enough his troops were marching on Bunker Hill against a group of very neatly dressed British homosexuals. After killing some Hessians in their sleep on Christmas Eve, Washington’s army accidentally burned down Philadelphia. This forced Benjamin Franklin to return to the mountains where he will slumber for a thousand years until he awakes to herald the end of all things. Thus, Christmas was saved.
So where does that leave Egypt? There’s still hope for this revolution to be memorable. Just let America get involved. We’ll send over Carson Daly and some inflatable beach toys and boom! Revolution: Spring Break Egypt 2011. Nothing says freedom like getting sunburned and throwing up in a hole on the beach you’ve been digging for some reason. Hosni, your days are numbered.

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The Slant Pays Tribute to Leslie Nielsen

December 3, 2010 By

Surely you can’t be serious?
Leslie Nielsen died the other day while in a hospital in Florida.
What was it?
Well, a big building with a bunch of patients, but that’s not important right now. Leslie Nielsen was one of our idols at The Slant. We’ve seen Airplane! more times than we care to remember. And even though we cringe every time O.J. Simpson (if the glove don’t fit) pops onto the screen in the Naked Gun series, we still watch them because of Mr. Nielsen’s character, Lt. Frank Drebin, and his goofy antics.
It’s hard for us to admit our sadness over Mr. Nielsen’s death. We usually hate people who are funnier than us, which happens to be why we hate most people. But Leslie Nielsen had an adorable charm that was undeniable to friends, foes, and people who ate fish. He was the grandpa that we all wished we’d grow up to become. Between his deadpan deliveries, Mr. Nielsen always seemed to sleep with attractive blondes 40 years younger than him. Sometimes, he even found time to save the day (or the Queen of England).
At the beginning of his career he was a serious actor. Realizing he was pretty mediocre at that, Mr. Nielsen decided to jump ship (after The Poseidon Adventure) and went into comedy. There he developed his trademark delivery – so flat not even light could escape. While we may be confusing Leslie Nielsen with a black hole, the fact remains: he was a very, very funny man even if his gravitational pull wasn’t that great.
We don’t know how he died. Other people do, we’re sure, but we don’t. What we do know is that it probably wasn’t in the same way as Chris Farley; doing an 8-ball off a stripper covered in sloppy-joe meat. However it happened, we like to think that this exchange took place:

Doctor: Mr. Nielsen, what is it?

Leslie Nielsen: I can’t tell…

Doctor: You can tell me, I’m a doctor.

With that, we’re guessing that Mr. Nielsen smiled, knowing that he made millions of people laugh during his lifetime. That’s better than Al Gore, who just made us all feel like dicks. That’s even better than Abe Lincoln, who killed racism in a duel known as the “Teapot Dome Scandal.” Well, maybe not better than Abe. But hey, Leslie was Canadian, so his points count for double.
Oh, and one last thing.
Don’t call me Shirley.

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Malaysians Form Voltron!

October 1, 2010 By

In many of the butchered attempts at conversing with Vanderbilt’s Malaysian population, I have learned a few things.  One, they are smarter than I am.  Two, they know English better than I do…probably…but they speak it in another dialect,  one that spawned from the planet Arus, which strangely has the flow of Japanese, and yet, is oddly similar to English.  Apparently, the Malaysian delegation is enrolled at Vanderbilt’s engineering program for one reason and one reason only: to construct Voltron – Defender of the Universe.
For those of you that don’t know, the occurrences surrounding Voltron are based off actual events set in a faraway galaxy.  There, a bunch of preteens protect their planet from evil forces by forming a giant robot made out of five smaller robotic lions.  Basically, between pre-calc class and attempts at giving hand-jobs, the Voltron kids cut other evil robots in half with a giant sword.  It would be similar to the show Full House if Uncle Jesse and the Olsen Twins combined their powers to stop Bob Saget from molesting people all while wearing robotic suits.
The extrasolar homeworld the Malaysians come from is still run under a feudal system, so the “Voltron” device is largely used to oppress peasants and ensure that the institution of serfdom remains alive and well.  The Malaysians have lifted all of these principals from the engineering department after experiencing firsthand how the department treats its students.
A week of all-nighters trying to build a machine to scratch your professor’s ass will make you want to construct a giant death-device, or at the least, write an angry note.
In the end, however, it became apparent that there is no need for us to be afraid of Vanderbilt’s Malaysian population.  So what if they want to make a bunch of robotic battle-lions?  That sounds cool as fuck to us.  At The Slant, we have decided to embrace the Malaysians and their new mechanical god as our future overslords. When their new regime is installed through a bloody, prepubescent conquest, we’ll see who’s laughing last.
(p.s. – It’ll be those of us still alive.)

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New Coffee Shop Murders Smoothie Place; Needs New Alias

September 12, 2010 By

What’s in a name? At The Slant, we think that most everything revolves around what you’re named at birth, unlike astrology, which doesn’t tell you shit. We’re supposed to jive well with Capricorns. Grace is a Capricorn, and we’re never going back to that bitch.
All of that aside, students of Vanderbilt – consider yourself new fathers (and whatever the female counterpart to a father is). Your loins have produced a hideous creature, but a hideous creature that sells coffee and has cumberstrating (a portmanteau word for those English Majors) touch screens. Mazel Tov! Located in Sarratt, the new coffee shop is currently in full swing distributing the same awful Bongo Java and Starbucks coffee that you’re used to. Now, all you need to do is name it. Being the responsible Americans that you are, we suggest you let democracy decide your child’s name through the electoral process. The Slant would like to offer some suggestions so that you don’t have to rack your brains over this momentous decision.
We would have the coffee shop named one of a few things. Our first option is to name it “That Fucking Coffee Shop” so when people want to meet somewhere they can pretend to study, they’ll say, “hey, wanna meet at That Fucking Coffee Shop?” and you can respond, “Yeah, That Fucking Coffee Shop whose coffee tastes like Colombian water filtered through a lemur carcass?” Seriously though, the coffee drinking experience is akin to someone throwing a fist full of Folgers at your face and then being waterboarded by garbage. Imagine that the “Maxwell House” is actually a brothel, and you get to drink the runoff. Ok, well, the coffee isn’t that bad. On a scale of vaginal secretion to purple drank, it’s a 7.
Our second suggestion is related to our first but has a more positive note. We’d call it, “Still Better Than Kissam,” so people can say, “Hey, do you want to go to that fucking coffee place?” “Yea, it’s Still Better Than Kissam.” Now, this sobriquet is versatile, because you can replace Kissam with any number of things. Like “Rand” or “The Football Team” or “Greek Life.”
Unfortunately, knowing Vanderbilt, they’ll probably veto any cool (or accurate) name we would provide, so it’ll probably be named “The Filling Station” or “Java-dores.” You know, something that tried to be intelligent and cute, but comes off as a place where pedophiles would go to have their union meeting. Hell, maybe they’ll name it “The Grind,” because you grind coffee beans and you face the daily grind…it’s a double entendre. Get it? IT’S HILARIOUS.
All we’re saying is that Vanderbilt should allow the democratic process to work. So, if everyone decides to name that fucking coffee place (the one that’s better than Kissam) something like… Mike Hunt’s Dick Emporium, then it should be allowed. This is America, where we like our profanity blatant and our coffee tasting like…well, Sanka. We don’t need to play that one up at all.

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Slant Reporter Goes Abroad to Strange, Unforgiving Land

April 18, 2010 By

Here at the Slant we have high standards of excellence.  Our articles are always proofread at least once.  We don’t associate with the Hustler staff.  We have our own dust-jacket (in the form of Versus).  Our writers are have been called “beneficent martyrs for truth and journalistic integrity”.  This is why I was not surprised when the Slant told me they would be sending me Paris for our new editorial; “The Slant Goes Abroad”.

Those fuckers.

I am in Clarksville Tennessee right now for the “Rivers and Spires” festival.  Apparently we don’t have any money for “Paris”.  That will have to wait for next year.  By that point Obama will probably have thrown some money our way.  I hear he’s going to implement a blimp-based system for money distribution.  Bombs away.

If you have never been to Clarksville- don’t.  I finally understand that Swift’s “A Modest Proposal” was not a satire- he was just referring to this particular destination.  The number of strollers outnumbers the number of people.  What I’m trying to say is… babies need to be eaten.  What is more unnerving is the average age of the parents.  In many cases the parents are only a couple years older than the parents.  For this to be possible many of the infants are impregnated while in the womb- like human Russian dolls.  Open up a baby, what’s inside?  More baby.

As I waded through the human ball-pit, I noted the attire of the gastropods around me.  Camouflage.  Football jerseys.  Jorts.  And what is that air?  Crystal Meth?  Or Heroin?  And what is that I just slid on?  A slick patina of vomit and Coors.  Even my sense of taste is on the retreat- the corpulent women next to me hasn’t stopped eating fried… something… and farting, for hours.  How do you even eat and fart for that long?!

And then the Pied Piper of Clarksville, Mr. Charlie Daniels himself walks onto the stage- and the place goes fuckin’ crazy.  All he does is play a damn fiddle and ohhhhhh my god he’s really good at that.  Ok, I take that part back.  But still, something about this place has made me realize that Mr. Darwin was right, we are really descended from apes.

You’re probably wondering what gives me the right to be so pretentious.  I have never had sex with animals.  I have not fried an article of clothing so I could eat it.  I’m over the Civil War.  Oh, by the way, Go North.  I would like to say that this isn’t a commentary on Middle America.  I have no problem with that part of the world.  Just, please, stay away from me Clarksville.

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Edgar Allen Poe Speaks!

March 21, 2010 By

With “Versus” recently interviewing the producer of “Hot Tub Time Machine” (way to go guys, maybe next time you can get someone notable from a real movie!) the folks at the Slant (meaning me) decided it would be a good idea to do an interview of our own.  Unfortunately we don’t have the sort of pull that “Versus” does so we couldn’t get anyone importa-

Wait, who the fuck is that?!

Two ghostly steeds kick down the door to my single, which is weird for a Saturday

“It is I, Edgar Allen Poe!”

I recoil in horror as the Mr. Poe himself strides through the threshold to my room.  He smells like shit.  Like, its really hard for me to type right now.

“Why do you smell so bad?”

And with that simple question, my interview began with one of the greats, the morose bastard himself, Edgar Allen Poe…

Me:  Thanks so much for coming.

EAP: No, problem.  I always enjoy helping out a friend.

Me: Yea you owe me more than one favor after Berlin.

EAP: (laughing) Don’t you be bringing up Berlin again!

Me: So besides this interview, what brings you to Nashville?

EAP: Well this adorable couple just moved into a house in Hillsboro with their new baby- so I figured I’d go scare the shit out of them.  You know, blood on the walls, eerie voices, and of course taking dumps in their toilets while they are away on vacation… and not flushing.

Me: Moving on- have you been keeping busy?

EAP: Yea, you know, I try to get out of the house, do a little writing here and there.

Me: Still writing Horror?

EAP: Actually the piece I’m working on now is about a Cyborg with a urinary tract infection who keeps finding love in all the wrong places- with hilarious results.  I call it, “Crossing Streams”.

Me: That sounds terrible.

EAP: Well, I’ll admit it’s an acquired taste.  Obviously fans of my earlier stuff won’t be too enthused, but you can’t please everyone can you?

Me: Can you get rid of your ghostly steeds?  The one on the left hasn’t stopped going to the bathroom since it’s got here and the one on the right looks like he wants to rape me.  He’s been eyeing me up this whole time and it’s starting to freak me out.

EAP: Of course, how silly of me…

Edgar shouts “Streetcar!” “Desire!” “Away!” and with a wave of his hand his horses dissolve and flow into my closet- right next to my Crest with tartar control.

Me: Thanks.  So who do you usually hang out with up in heaven?

EAP:  Well, if you can believe it, most of the original Harlem Globetrotters.

Me:  Most of them are still alive.  Did you just get that from Scooby-Doo?

EAP: No, what are you talking about…

Me:….

Edgar breaks down crying, telling me how he doesn’t have any friends, and how he’s “too much of a genius” for everyone.  He’s a total crybaby, but what can you expect from an emo bitch.  I could never tell him that though.

Me: You’re kind of an emo bitch Edgar.

EAP: Yea…

Me: Anyway, last question.  If you had some advice from beyond the grave for our readers out there, what would it be?

EAP:  Heaven is mostly games of Scrabble where everyone gets a triple word score every time.  Like teiid is a fucking word…  That and a bunch of marzipan… whatever that is.

Me: You didn’t make it in heaven did you?

And with that a jet of fire bursts from my floor and engulfs Edgar, who cackles as he descends into the underworld once again.

Me: What a bitch.

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Surviving Disaster at Vanderbilt

February 7, 2010 By

Surviving Disaster Vanderbilt Style

By Zach Wright

In the midst of last weeks iPad controversy (extra absorbent iPod; now with wings) you may have noticed the five inches of snow that uncharacteristically fell on Nashville.  Besides a few Donner Party-esque incidents where sorority girls ended up eating each other (only to vomit it back up; what a waste), everyone seemed to enjoy the snow.  Now, I like watching people slip and fall as much as the next person, but the recent “Death Blizzard of 2010” as its now being called, threw into stark relief how underprepared Vanderbilt’s students are for other potential catastrophes.  So while you were frolicking on alumni lawn; your liquor jacket shielding you from the cold (and dignity), I was preparing for other upcoming disasters:

  1. Dinosaur break out; clever girl.  If you don’t get that reference, go watch all the “Jurassic Park” movies, expect for the one with William H. Macy.  Screw that morose bastard.  William, if you are reading this, you still have my garden hose and leaf blower, and I kind of need those back.  Thanks.  Now, normal weapons won’t work, so if we want to survive we’ll need to incorporate some unorthodox tactics.  I suggest sending wave after wave of freshman to attack the reptilian beasts until they are satiated.  Then hopefully they will leave us alone, and more housing will be open in the Commons.
  2. Nuclear winter.  You think it’s cold now?  In this disaster scenario, we’d probably have to barricade ourselves in our dorms to escape the extreme temperatures and radioactive particles.  Unfortunately, there is no liquor jacket for radiation.  On the bright side, Geiger counters make excellent accessories for you Vandy girls out there.  Plus everyone that had classes in “Old Gym” probably has cancer from all the asbestos in there anyway.  So go nuts you history of art fans!
  3. Mad Max style death race.  Now, you are probably saying, “Zach, I doubt I’ll ever find myself in a death race” to which I’ll respond “we’ll see who’s laughing when I’m chasing you with my battle wagon”.  Just something for you haters to think about.  I actually believe that Vanderbilt is pretty well prepared for this one.  With how affluent Vanderbilt’s population is, many people have cars, some of which aren’t Lexus’s, BMW’s or Audi’s (if you can believe it).  On top of that, we already have a fleet of durable, puke and blood stained tanks in the form of Vandy-Vans.  Those things have seen more carnage than Michael Vick’s petting zoo.  I wouldn’t be too concerned with this scenario.  Also, I call dibs on being part of A.J. Ogilvy’s team.  I assume that every Australian has been in at least one death race.

So there you have it fellow Commodores.  If you ever find yourself in one these situations you should now have an idea of what to do.  That being said, if you don’t read this article you will probably die a terrible death.  Go Dores!

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