Dissection of a Rant

Alright I'm back and ready to roll. I've got a good rant stashed up and I'm feeling obnoxious enough  to tell it. Now this post is going to have a twist. While ranting I will dissect and explain the important points of a rant so you all can be as funny as me.

Haha, I just made myself laugh.
Alright here we go:
(The story will be in RED and the dissection in BLUE)

 Last night I was up studying for a test in psychology the next day. It was a huge test, 300 pages of materials covered in it. No biggie, I'm a freaking super genius. I read 300 pages before I go to bed every night. Right after I bend spoons with my mind and before I do my thousand push-ups. So I'm not worried. I eventually get done studying and decide that it's time to catch some Z's in before I rock this test.

Introduction: In the introduction of a rant you want to sound like nothing out of the normal. Instill a sense of normalcy in the situation. As you can see above I've just described just another normal, boring night for myself. Although admittedly that may not be what happened that night. I didn't bend spoons that, I think it may have been transmuting lead to gold.

Next morning I wake up naturally, my alarm didn't go off, and I felt rested. Awesome. This means I have time for breakfast before I blow this test out of the water. So I grab some food and walk into the lecture hall. I'm early, shweet! I sit down and start thinking over the material again and realize something. Today has been amazing.

This makes me nervous.

Realization of the Odd: Alright, here you begin to develop the conflict in the rant. You want to be subtle and not blow your punchline. Try and identify the correct method yourself!

A)  Then I realized her stomach was bulging a little.

                          -or-

 B) Then I realized, THE BITCH WAS PREGNANT!!! AAHHHHHHHH!

Good! You chose right!

Moving right along then...

I was right to be nervous. The morning was filled with good karma because this test had soaked up all of the evil on the entire campus. If Vlad the Impaler and Joseph Stalin had an illegitimate love child this test would still have kicked it back into the womb. You have never taken a test this difficult, it was like your last chemistry test, in Italian.

Insane Exaggeration: You're all smart people, most of you can figure this one out. But for Patrick's sake I'll explain in more detail. The goal is not to make the focus of your story seem ridiculous so much as it is to make the most ridiculous references. References to semi-obscure historical figures or people's mothers adds to the effect, while referencing recent movies and T.V. shows negates it.

 So there I am, sulking out of class, head stooped in shame and spirit broken by the demon test. There is no comfort in sight. The test will not be curved and there are no bonus points. Which leaves me with one option: Arson. Now I know what you're thinking "But Beierle, you can't light the lecture hall on fire!" And I would agree, that would be silly, the tests are probably kept in the professors office.

Completly Ridiculous Conclusion: This is the highlight of the story. Your joke is over and people expect for things to be winding down, but no! Milk it for all its worth! But be wary, if the story isn't going well its best to let it die. No one likes the rambling idiot who tells horrible stories, laughs at himself, is short, has small hands, sits in bow seat, and is Daniel Collier. 

No one likes Daniel Collier.

Does anyone know where I can buy some fire?

Whitty Closing remark: Enough said.

Well there you go! Now you can all make ranting blogs and stop bothering me whenever you need to be entertained. Needy people...

Beierle out

P.S. On a more serious note I'm not sure how many people actualy read this and if its worth it to keep it up. Leave me a comment if you do. Thanks!

P.S.S. I'm only mean to Dan because I have a crush on you man! I'm mean to Patrick because he's a dick.

Hypnotic Voodoo Rhythm

For all of you who don't know, I am currently enrolled in an anthropology class. And once again, for all of you who don't know, anthropology is the study of human cultures. I decided to take the "Human Cultures" course to widen my perspective of our world and become a more understanding person.


It hasn't worked.


In fact, I have had a completely different reaction, but to first understand said reaction, you must get a glimpse of my most recent anthro class. Today we were studying religion. And now that all of you who know me are now bracing for a good old fashion rant, I can only oblige. In class today we studied the Yanomamo, a tribe of native people in Venezuela. The Yanomamo tribesmen are lunatics. Besides having the craziest fucking name ever conceived by man, they are also hardcore recreational drug users (and all in the name of the spirits). Now stop here for a moment and lets think about the recreational drug users you know. You're probably thinking of some coke head passed out in a trashcan wearing no pants with a birthday hat happily perched on his left ass cheek. This is nothing. This is the pre-game for the Yanomamo. The Yanomamo people take a hallucinogenic powder (called Yopo) and snort it to achieve their high. Not that impressive, until you take a look at their injection system. You see, the Yanomamo prefer to have their hallucinogenics blasted into the deepest crevasses of their brain matter. To facilitate this one Yanomaman man loads what can only be described as a blow gun, with drug powder and jams it up another mans nose. You're all smart people, you can do the figuring from there. After having their brains basted in a thick coating of cocaine the men preform religious rituals, consisting of running around the town, ass naked, screaming their heads off (I would know, I watched 40 mins of video on it).


And that's when my epiphany occurred. Our society, with all of our human rights, modern medicine, and fancy technology, is incredibly lame. Maybe you differ from my opinion, but I would trade a 9-5 desk job for marinading my brain in organic hallucinogens while dancing naked any day of the week. So I declare to you all now that I am abandoning my collegiate pursuits to become a shaman! 


I'll see you all in the spirit world.


Or maybe not...


JAB

My Day as a Morning Person

04:50. My alarm goes off.

04:51. I release a string of expletives unsafe for even Satin's ears.

Today the varsity crew team was in need of a novice rower, who could row (It sounds redundant, but trust me, its not). And as I am always happy to facilitate the team, after much physical abuse, I agreed to come. At first the early hours of the day lived up to my expectations; I pulled on my spandex and sweats in the dark, looked for a water bottle in my room while stumbling like a drunk, and managed to stub my toe on the door frame on my way out. But, always the trooper (and a modest one at that), I pressed on. As I trudged to the gym I took care of the next most important thing: acquiring someone to bitch to. Whipping out my phone I remind my partner in misery that pick-up time was fast approaching. As we arrived at the gym I greeted my novice companion with nothing but a grunt as we piled into a car, hardly checking who was driving. For all I knew Dumbledoor was behind the wheel, and for all I cared it was a baby eating serial killer. Part of me hoped for it, I didn't want to row right now.

But alas, we finished the journey safely. And all flopped out of the SUV and circled up in the field, most too tired to talk in the early morning. After an eternity of waiting the coach emerged from his car and talked with us, it seems that he was running late and in a bad mood. Always keen to social situations, I decided this would be a good time to introduce myself. So I stumbled towards him, still intoxicated with drowsiness, and informed him that he did, in fact, have that last starboard seat practice today. What happened next was too terrifying for words, but I'll try and convey the point. You see, no amount of comic books, or superhero movies could have prepared me for what lie ahead; in the crisp tranquility of the morning, my head coach flipped a shit.

Without warning a torrent of expletives flooded over my body, now paralyzed out of shock. His furry was so intense it would not have surprised me in the least if he hurled a car into the woods, or ate a varsity rower so we had the "correct" number of athletes. After the shit hit the fan and the air cleared Alex apologized for his outburst to the team, explaining that he knew it was going to be a bad day after a hairy centipede crawled on him while he was taking his morning shit (I kid you not).

But once we got on the water, after all the antics and anger, a funny thing happened. Just before our first piece a rooster let out its sharp, piecing cry and I realized something. I was on the water, about to row, and there's no where else I'd rather be. After that the practice was fantastic. The frustration of three weeks of nothing but novice work was washed away by a 32 rating, power in the drive, and a set boat. As we arrived back on the dock, with the sun just having showed its face, my morning seemed complete, and I was ready for the rest of the day.

Would I do it again?

No fucking way, sleep rocks.

JAB

A Scarlet Letter

Today I have donned a heinous piece of clothing, one that no man should have to wear, a mark of shame. It sits on my chest like the scarlet letter from Hawthorn’s great tale, but I am not brandished for my adulterous ways. I am marked, instead, for my sloth. Today I pull on this brown and yellow monstrosity because it is, without exaggeration, my only clean garment. It is the sole survivor, neatly folded in my closet, against the unkempt hoards that pile up on my dorm room floor, reaching tall for the window like a plant starved of light. But today there has to be a change.

Today is laundry day.

It’s been coming all week, and I’ve to put it off as long as I can, but now the walk of shame is upon me. Today I pull on my thrice worn jeans, flaunting their mustard stain proudly on my left thigh, and climb the flight of stairs to the washroom, with my overflowing laundry hamper in hand. I wear my slippers on this journey; all my socks have ripened and passed their prime. In fact the only relief I have is that the musk from my worn out wardrobe is hidden underneath a cloud of deodorant and body spray.

So for now I write to you from the Wills Dorm laundry room. Because today I have three loads of laundry waiting for the grime and stench to be washed off, three tormenting climbs up the stairs, and three times I’ll try to hide that red letter so boldly brandished on my chest.

With great shame,

JAB

Parents Weekend and Midnight Cramming

Well here we go, I've been called out and now I have to stick up a new post. I've had a great day, with many stories to tell, but there's a catch. I also have to study anthropology at the same time. So you all are in for a treat... a very confusing, cultural treat.

Let the stories and merriment begin!

This weekend was parents weekend at UVM, which means that freshman's parents roll down to check out the campus, block traffic, fill parking lots, bother their kids, and annoy the ever loving shit out of me. You see while parents weekend is a time of happiness and joy for some it means something different to me. The sad truth of the matter is my parents don't care for me anymore. They have banished me into an icy prison of isolation, horrible food, and hippies (Social Death: The end of social relations with someone when they break certain social rules). But I don't blame them, over exposure to awesome has been known to cause blindness, an inferiority complex, and decreased sperm count. And it is only fair that I be someone else's burden for now. But the worst part of parents weekend is that there is no one to hang out with. The conversations go something like this:

Me: Hey man, what's going on!
Them: Not much
Me: You want to hang out?
Them: Yea! But my parents are over here right now, that cool with you?
Me: Yeah! And while we're at it we can go hang out with the salvation army! And knit woolen mittens for the poor!

I'm paraphrasing of course. Gender Stratification: The division of a society into unequal groups based on gender. But even that was bearable. The straw on the camels back was walking back to my dorm after english class. To pain you a picture I'm grumpy and tired from discussing an old man who fell asleep under a tree (Rip van Winkle was much more exciting as a 5 year old when it was a pop-up book). And on my way home I make a discovery, any poor chump in sweats with a backpack is labeled a tour guide for the weekend. It took me 15 minutes and 7 families to get back to my dorm, still pissed at Mr. Ripp van Winkle for ever having his story written. Incest Taboo: Anyone in West Virginia marrying anyone else in West Virginia. A simple investment in a campus map, and some brains, was all these people needed to get around the school successfully, but instead I was burdened. I now know why people hate tourists.

Well there you go Dale, my ranting is done. I hope it was satisfying. But before I leave I'd like to leave you all with one though:

Ethnography: The description and account of an anthropologists experiences while immersed in a foreign culture.

Beierle out.

A Personal Note to Dale Jordan

Dear Dale,

I'm terribly sorry that I have neglected my duties to you, and my 5 other readers. It saddens me deeply that I let you down, almost as much as it saddens me that I can fit all of my readers into a mini van. In the future I will remember to post, and if I don't I know I'll hear of it.

Because an elephant never forgets...

Jake