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.

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.

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!

Crime Alerts.  They are an unpleasant fact of life at Vanderbilt and a chilling reminder that the “Vanderbubble” isn’t some anti-reality force field, but an expression of how scared we are of life outside of Vanderbilt’s shady acres.  And who can blame us?  “Crime Alerts” let us know that there is depravity, poverty, and even, GASP!, crime in the real world.  Admittedly, while most of the “Alerts” consist of stories ranging from “such-and-such drunk girl thinks the earth groped her when she slipped on her own vomit and hit the ground” to “high dude in Mayfield thinks he maybe saw a shadowy figure doing something maybe”, there is the occasional actual crime.  One such crime happed to Brian Lesniak, (’12).

I had the chance to interview Mr. Lesniak, in hopes that not only would his crime be solved, but also that I could help prevent further crimes of a similar nature.

Me: Thanks for meeting me in this secret location, Mr. Lesniak.

Mr. Lesniak:  This is one of the booths in the Pub.  And why are you calling me             “Mr. Lesniak”?  We’ve known each other for over a year now.

Mr. Lesniak, went on to tell me, in vivid and gruesome detail how his 10 year-old quilt was stolen from the laundry room in Vandy-Barnard.  Through his tears he told me that it “didn’t really bother him that much” and “he doubted it would end up in a ‘Crime Alert’”.

While Mr. Lesniak was right in that his crime never ended up gracing our email inbox’s, I still felt compelled to get to the bottom of the mystery.  To aid me in my task I ended up going to the fairest, best equipped and most competent organization on campus; VUPD.  Side note: some British guy recently invented a quotation mark for sarcasm; I’m still trying to find it though…

The VUPD gets a bad reputation around Vanderbilt.  So what if the same cop that watches you shotgun twelve beers pulls you over the next day for a “dimming taillight”?  They do it to because they care about justice and our well-being.  So when I went to the VUPD to report this heinous crime, I was somewhat surprised when the told me to “go grow a dick so I could fuck myself” because I was “wasting their time with stupid bitch stuff”.

Shaken and disheartened, I prepared to head back to my dorm.  However, on my way there, I saw Mr. Lesniak, holding what appeared to be a large dryer sheet.

“Hey, my quilt was in the lost and found the whole time you don’t have to write that story anymore”.

With this latest crime solved, I think all of Vanderbilt can rest a little easier.  I know I will, especially with the knowledge I’m being protected by VUPD, an inordinate number of video cameras, and of course “Crime Alerts”.  Now, I’m off to go help a girl find the self-esteem she lost during spring rush!

Jay-Z came to Vanderbilt this weekend and received quite positive reviews. After praising the school for its energy and excellent dining facilities, Jay-Z commented on our “swag” as it were. His opinions echoed the sentiments of many Commodores: we’re fresh as hell. After about solid thirty minutes of fashion critiques, Jay-Z had to continue playing music, much to the dismay of the greater Vanderbilt populace. Amidst cries of “What about my outfit!” and “Is my shirt legit?” Jay-Z sung “Forever Young”. Unfortunately its complex message couldn’t penetrate the pleas for advice on color-coordination and fall-styles.

In order to gauge the university’s opinions of the concert, I talked to a few random people afterwards. I first spoke with a large cluster of people, who told me they didn’t go to Vanderbilt, and then told me to “fuck off”. After 30 minutes and many similar responses from non-students, I finally found someone who actually went to Vanderbilt and the concert.

“Oh man, when he got up there and started talking about clothes, he totally pointed at me!”

When asked about the actual concert, this person had said nothing except, “yea there was music and stuff, which was pretty cool”.

After that person passed out in the street I decided to find a girl to get the female perspective. I asked the same question as before: what did you think of the concert?

“It’s not everyday that a fashion legend comes to Vanderbilt. I mean, he definitely saw me in my new heels and pearls.”

And the music?

“I’m not a fan of foreign music, but wow, Jazzy here at Vanderbilt!”

After such a positive response Vanderbilt Student Government has already tried to get in contact with Common and P Diddy. Bob Dylan will no longer be passing through Vanderbilt, as he was deemed “not nearly fresh enough”.

First thing you notice when you walk into the Rec center are the two distinct groups of people coagulated at separate ends of the weight-room. If you don’t notice this, then you are probably part of one of the groups; may God have mercy on your soul.

First off there are the sorority girls. I’m not talking about your average girl that’s pressured to join sorority because if the don’t they’ll be “totally lame”, I’m talking about the hardcore foot-soldiers; the ones who come up with stuff like “D ClDssy Tribute to VeterDns!” and “Theta Loves to Hate Malaria!” You’ll see these ones on the Ellipticals. What is the reasoning behind this? Some of them will tell you it’s because running is too “high impact for my malnourished bones” and the exercise bikes are “all sweaty and junk”. In actuality the only thing the Ellipticals help you do is run through oscillating pits of sand, a challenge few of us will ever face. But hey, 99 problems right?

The second group isn’t connected by any higher organization like a sorority; instead the group itself acts as the binding force. These people love doing curls. Never mind that your body has many other more important muscles that you could be developing, everyone with half-a-brain knows curls are all that matters. This perception is bolstered by the fact that the girls who use the Ellipticals sometimes look to mate with guys who can lift heavy things from their waist to their shoulders, only using their arms. This is also how the choosing of a mate works in many isolated villages in Central Africa, the Amazon, and rural Kentucky.

Meanwhile, the people who actually know what they are doing have to wade through all these people. However, this is not the fault of either of the two aforementioned groups; the onus for that mistake lies on the shoulders of the university. In the construction of the facilities they seemed to forget that around 6000 undergraduates are enrolled at any given moment. This makes their choice to make the weight-room of comparable size to that of its high school counterpart, interesting.

Now, after all that, you would think that the Rec would finally get its act together when it came to the Intra-Mural leagues. Unfortunately for all of us, thinking this would be a colossal mistake. The scheduling and re-scheduling of games seems to be completely incongruous. “Oh you can’t play 1:30 pm on Mondays? Class? Ok, we’ll move your game to 5 am Tuesday then. Sleep? No problem, we’ll just move it to 8 am Sunday. Church? Well, you’ll have to forfeit then. By the way, you owe us forty dollars for joining the league, thanks”.

In closing, the Rec Center could use a little attitude change. I don’t know how it has contributed to the ills of American society. Sure, I could go for some metaphor that The Rec represents our moral and cultural deficiencies, and that such a tenuous metaphor the best evidence any of us will ever muster in our chaotic and materialistic lives, but that would take too much time. So here’s to you Rec center, thanks for giving the Slant a new enemy; I’d watch your back…

The Slant V.S….The Slant

Be honest.  You didn’t see that one coming.  Unless you looked down here before reading the preface.  In that case, 1. Learn how to read, and 2. You’re next.

The Slant…jeez where to start…I mean you’d think we’d give a little slack to one thing at this school that puts out a good product?  Why make fun of ourselves when The Hustler and Rand provide enough typo and diarrhea laden quips to last a lifetime?  Here’s why: Read one of our issues.  I’m talking the whole thing.  Chances are you never heard a group of people so self-righteous in your life.  Who are we to pass judgment on the student body of Vanderbilt?  If you answered “clique of wannabe indie-hipsters, “individuals”, and sarcastic assholes”, then yea, you got it right.  GREAT WORK.  You’ve probably seen some of us, walking to class, with our moccasins and flannel shirts, listening to Arcade Fire on our Zunes.  Those would be the aforementioned wannabe indie-hipsters.  The “individuals” can be spotted easily by whether or not they own a black Northface.  The sarcastic assholes are the hardest to spot.  Usually you have to talk to them.  If you have a conversation with a seemingly normal person and you say to yourself “what a derisive jackass” afterward, you probably just had a conversation with a member of the Slant.  Congrats.

Our meetings consist of this curious amalgam of people trying to come up with something original for 45 minutes before falling back on the all-to-easy HOD/Greek Life/H1N1/ whatever was on Digg that day, jokes.  And trust me…its easy.  Like kicking a seal in its adorable face, easy.

So why would such a group of Vanderbilt-loathing people stay at Vanderbilt? 

Without an outlet for our ridicule how would we inflate our sense of importance?  If we were at a school where everything was perfect we wouldn’t be “kind of funny” or “unique” or even “interesting”, we’d just be dicks.  So yea, we’re kind of like social masochists but we have Vanderbilt to thank for that.  And trust me, we’re thankful.

Thank you for closing dining halls for half the week.

Thank you for running a QB draw five times in a row.

Thank you for extorting money from us whenever we need books.

Thank you for setting up more tents than Kublai Kahn himself.

Thanks for all the material Vanderbilt.

-Zach Wright

If a person from outside the Vanderbubble were to walk into Rand around 12 o’clock on a weekday, they would probably mistake it for a Tokyo Subway or a Moroccan Spice market.  I know for a fact that most of the meat used there is retired (and I say retired because those animals had goddamn careers) circus animal.  So, just like in a Moroccan spice market, there is camel meat being consumed.  But lunch at Rand barely glows when juxtaposed to the inferno of human depravity witnessed at Rand brunch.

Girls walk in covered in paint; Guys have massive tears in their shirts.  It smells like Beer 30 and bacon with a hint of bodily fluid.  A baby is crying in a corner and that puppet from the intro of “Are You Afraid of the Dark” is chillin’ on a swing by the salad bar.  You just know he’s there, ready to knife you between helpings of baby corn.  Basically, the place looks like the aborted love child of “Dawn of the Dead”, “Emeril Live” and a Lacoste Catalog.  A devils threesome of the worst kind.

As I wade through the chaos, a one eyed women comes up to me and says, “Turn back before lose your soul!” 

“Why are people from Belmont here?” I shout out, hoping for an answer.  Instead some girl throws up, her vomit bracketed by the phrases “Oh my god” and “Like, totally”.  She’s pretty thin though, and looking good, so I don’t judge her based on the obvious eating disorder.  I shove my way to the front of the line, throwing elbows as I go.  Marcy, the girl behind the counter is covered in what I assume is food.  I look into her eyes; cold, soulless, black.  Eyes of a person who’d lost faith in humanity long ago. 

Being the Good Samaritan that I am, I decide to help.  I go over to the pastry table.  Picking up a piece of cheesecake, I walk back into the cafeteria and get in line.  Surely this will save her from the throes of apathy, I think as I inch toward the counter.  I’m going to show her something she hasn’t seen before (once again, not the alien from Total Recall).  All I want is a reaction.  I brace for the moment of truth.

“Can I please have some gravy on this cheesecake?”

The moment seems like an eternity.  It’s like waiting for pandas to mate. 

Nothing.

No reaction.

She didn’t bat a fucking eyelash.

In one swift motion, the ladle goes down into the speckled gray mass, comes up with the terrible goop, and “plop!” right on the cheesecake.

“You have a good one,” I say, mid-shudder.

She responds with some guttural sounds.

I sit back down among my friends, all of whom are busy eating Alice (she had five humps).  But I am changed.  What I’ve seen I now have to take with me for the rest of my life.  I say this in all seriousness: for all of you that have ever had Rand Brunch, may God have mercy on your soul.

But seriously, try some gravy on cheesecake, it isn’t good, but it isn’t terrible.

“Of course I am,” I say.
We sit down in his sunroom. A large peacock wanders past us.
“Holy shit what is that?!” I exclaim.
“She is a waste of money,” he responds solemnly, stroking the vibrant and grotesque creature next to him. “I just don’t know what to do with all my money these days…” The sadness in his voice is palpable.
Using my reporting skills, I pry further.
“Yo hit me up with some of that cheddar…”
After explaining what ‘cheddar’ is, we continue.
“I’ve tried to give you Americans much of my ‘cheddar’, but they always refuse my emails. Is there something wrong with a Nigerian prince trying to give some money to the needy?”
“America huh?” I say absently, focusing all my attention on the peacock, which is totally staring at me.
“Yes America. I heard about the recession and I wanted to help.”
“Recession?” I ask. It takes me a while to remember what it is. It was that thing before swine flu, and Brett Favre, and after Michael Jackson he tells me.
“Oh yea, that thing. That’s still going on?”
After assuring me that it is, he speaks again, this time tears cloud his voice.
“I saw one of your reality shows and I was shocked at how you Americans live. In your own filth, forced into humiliating competitions just so you can stay on the same terrible island. I would hate to get voted off personally, but maybe it would be a blessing…”
“Yea it’s been rough. With fourteen meals a week and frats on probation till 2012…”
“I was going to give it to my own countrymen, for schools and hospitals, but I figured that your country needed it more. I don’t understand why you people don’t take my hand in this respect.”
“Neither do I.” I decide to help him. “Just give me the money and I’ll take it to America.”
“The cheddar?” he asks.
“Yes the cheddar, the cake, the bread, the dough…”
“Are you hungry?”
We argue over what to eat for twenty minutes before he gives me some of his fortune.
20 million Nigerian dollars in a large David Bowie wallet is what his large hand drops on the table in front of me, “I love their music, in fact I just purchased their new CD”
I tell him that I think David Bowie is “glam-rock shit that I wouldn’t be caught dead listening to”. He throws the massive bird next to him at me. I assume that a peacock to the face is the standard Nigerian custom for departure, and leave.
If there is a moral to this story, it would lie somewhere between the virtuosity philanthropy and having the foresight to check the exchange rate on Nigerian dollars. Seriously, I only got three Crunchwrap Supremes with 20 million dollars. But that night, I ate like a king; a king filled with re-re-fried beans (yes I get them triple fried, big deal…) and the knowledge that I had done some good in a world astray. Speaking of “stray”, spay and neuter your pets. Wait, what are we talking about?