So it’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve updated this series on improving your writing. I could go into detail explaining that I’ve been busy with school and life, and that I just haven’t had time to write. I could do that, but I won’t, because that wouldn’t be a rant, it would be a whine, a sulk, a mope, a pout, a bitch and a moan. This is why, today, I’m explaining the difference between a rant and sulk.
I think deep down, I’m loaded with guilt and I hate myself. I think I go about looking for little ways to punish myself on a daily basis; and I think that is why I read other people’s rants. I click on rants with promising titles, good titles, titles I might have written myself, (such as “Hey, I got a better idea, why don’t you light yourself on fire and go swim in a pool of lighter fluid, or The time I had to murder an entire dance class with an ice pick”) only to be rewarded for my interest by reading some borderline schizoid’s account of how the world has wronged him.
I think I’ve solved the riddle of The Hateful Sphinx: How does one tell the difference between a real rant and an amateur whine? It’s much simpler then you would think: a rant is entertaining, a whine is not. (PS, The Hateful Sphinx is a great ranter name if you’re still looking for one.)
A rant provides enjoyment, a rant brings a smile to your face. A whine makes you want to send an email (to the writer of said whine) instructing them in the fine art of jumping from skyscrapers and becoming a human lawn dart. (You should try it, it’s fun.)
In my continual quest to advance the art of ranting into an accepted fine art, (because I refuse to take a lame art class for my fine art credit,) I have identified the anatomy of a rant. There are three basic parts to any rant: 1) Qualification statement / Interest statement 2) Explanation 3) Pay off.
Qualification Statement / Interest Statement:
Before any rant or persuasive essay can truly begin, you must explain two things to the intended audience, A) Who are you to offer your opinion, and B) Why should anyone care what you think? If the answer to these questions is “Because I’ve had a bad day and I work with morons,” then GTFO and book yourself for a ride on the next failboat to An Hero Island, we don’t want to hear it.
Listen, I don’t care how your day went, if all you have to tell me is about is a day in your boring life, unless your story starts with “Dear Penthouse,” it’s probably not going to be worth reading. You have about two sentences to explain to me who you are and why I shouldn’t go read something else. I need something right away, an immediate investment, a sales pitch, if you can’t tell me why I should read your story by line three, I’m going to go read something more entertaining, like a blank wall.
Try this number: “So I’m not an idiot; I know the ways of the world;” (See, you’re already off to a great start, you’ve stated that you might be worth the air you waste) “but for the life of me, I can’t understand why some people are allowed to procreate.” (Now you’ve got my interest, follow it up by telling me why your story is important, why it’s not just another sulk by a punk kid full of privilege and entitlement.) “I’ve seen my fair share of morons and degenerates, but if I had to pick just one to castrate and remove from the gene pool, it would be Jack.”
Great, now you’ve got a good qualification statement and interest statement. You’ve stated that you are worthy of my attention, and that your story is worth my time, because this story is unique, it’s about the dumbest shit-fuck you know, and since you’re a sane person and you know a lot of shit-fucks, this might be entertaining.
Explanation:
This can go horribly wrong, or horribly right, horribly fast. If your next line starts: “Jack makes my life so difficult, because…” you have failed. If your next line starts: “I wouldn’t piss on Jack if he were on fire, because…” you’re on the right track. If your next line starts: “Jack should be strapped to a rocket and shot into the fiery core of the sun, because…” congratulations, you win an internet.
See, no one gives a fuck about your little life, or your petty problems. To make us care, this has to be an important problem, and the jerk you complain about has to to be important. You can’t just say you stubbed your toe; you have to have a genuine complaint: “A piano fell on my head, and a midget got out of it, and kicked me in the nuts.” It can’t be just some jerk who pisses you off, it has to be the ugliest, dumbest, inbredist, most shameful, sorriest, SOB to ever walk the earth. This isn’t a letter to your mum, we don’t care that your boss is a dipshit and has a bad haircut, guess what; our boss is a dipshit too, and his haircut sucks. If it’s not epic, it’s not worth reading, don’t waste your time writing it, because I’m sure as shit not wasting my time reading it. Make it worth reading.
Pay Off:
So I’ve read you’re story, paragraph after mind numbing paragraph, and I get to the end, and the ending is: “So I didn’t say or do anything about it, I just tucked my tail between my legs and carried on.” No, you’re doing it wrong. The end needs a punch line, a trump, a reward for me reading your crappy writing. Unless your story ends with “And there were no survivors,” I’m probably not going to think very highly of you.
Let’s look at a poorly written whine, and then compare it to masterfully crafted rant. This is something a loser would write:
Man, today sucked. I went to work at the school paper and my editor Jack complained that I smelled of alcohol, and that I shouldn’t be digging through the trash to find dirt on the instructors. I acknowledged that he was right, checked into rehab, and vowed to never dumpster dive again.”
Now let’s see how this would read if I had written it:
Now, I’m a pretty smart guy, I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but I can connect the dots and look at the big picture; and when you zoom out and look at the big picture, you see that most people are basically dicks, standing up and shooting off, making a mess of everything. However, if there were an academy award for Cockmongling, it would go to Jack.
I’m at work, and Senior Editor Jack McDicklick struts his way up to my desk like he fucking owns the place, like pedobear walking through Disneyland, and he opens that gapping cock-hole he calls a mouth: “Drake, are you drunk… again?” He asks rhetorically, as if the whole world didn’t know the answer.
I stood up and grasped the lip of my desk for stability. I made him wait while I finished off my whiskey sour, before replying: “Nope, I’m not drunk again, for your information; I’ve never sobered up, so I’m not drunk again, I’m still drunk. Are you all up in my space with your mean monkey face… again? Do you think you’re George Forman??? Because you’re all up in my grill… again.”
He blinked stupidly, as if trying to remember the muscle sequence required to cause words to leave his overnight semen deposit box: “Drake, we have to talk; I realize you might write some good stories, you might even have a following, but I’m a little concerned about your methods.”
“My methods? I didn’t hear your mom complaining about my methods, last night.” I said with a chicken-head-bobble, as I snapped my fingers.
Somewhere in the corner of the office, somebody who had been listening in spoke up: “Damn, that was good.”
I replied: “That’s what she said.”
“Drake, I’m not trying to be adversarial, I’m just saying, digging through trash looking for anything incriminating is pretty low, even for you.” Jack responded with a buck-toothy grin.
I weighed my options carefully, I could either sit here and take shit off this vacuous puss-bag, or do something. I looked him in the eyes, and realized that there was fear in them; fear and compassion, loneliness, Jack wasn’t being hateful, he just needed a friend; but mostly, I noticed that the skin around his eyes wasn’t black enough. I took the empty bottle of Wild Turkey from my desk drawer and gave it to Jack; across the face. I then used the broken neck of the bottle to carve him up like a poorly done jack-o-lantern.
I got in one little fight and my mom got scared and said you’re movin’ with your auntie and uncle in Bel-Air. I whistled for a cab and when it came near, the license plate said “Fresh”, and it had dice in the mirror, if anything I could say that this cab was where, but I thought man forget it yo home to Bel-Air. I pulled up to the house about seven or eight, and I yelled to the cabbie “yo homes smell ya later.” Looked at my kingdom I was finally there, to sit on my throne as the prince of Bel-Air.
I hate all of you.
