academic humour Archives - untypicable.

Sociology Gone Wild: Theories So Bizarre They Might Actually Explain Everything

AJ Wright — Tue, 29 Apr 2025 11:00:00 +0000

1. Phrenology: Measuring Morals One Bump at a Time

Phrenology, once the life coach of 19th-century pseudoscience, was the belief that the shape of your skull could reveal everything about you—from your aptitude for needlework to your likelihood of becoming a highwayman.

Franz Joseph Gall believed the brain was composed of “organs” controlling specific traits like benevolence, destructiveness, and… love of children (weirdly specific). If one of these was particularly well-developed, it would create a bump in your skull. Hence: your skull = a topographic map of your soul.

How it spiralled: By the mid-1800s, phrenology had become the BuzzFeed quiz of the Victorian age. People got “readings” done to determine the best career paths and potential romantic matches. Think Tinder meets skull fondling.

Sociological absurdity rating: 10/10. It made eugenics seem like a wellness trend.

2. Symbolic Interactionism: Schrödinger’s Zebra

Coined by George Herbert Mead and brought to the mainstream by Herbert Blumer, symbolic interactionism argues that people act based on the meanings things have for them—and those meanings come from social interaction.

So far, so sensible. But at its extreme, it means nothing exists until we all agree it does. Like zebras. Or gender. Or the fact that trousers are supposed to go on your legs and not your head.

Take the zebra example: Philosopher Ian Hacking once used symbolic interactionism to point out that, by this logic, a zebra isn’t a zebra unless it’s socially recognised as one. So if society collectively forgot what a zebra is, zebras would become… stripy donkeys? Mythical beasts? Expensive designer dogs?

Implications: A tiger can identify as a zebra if it really commits to the stripes and joins the right WhatsApp group.

Sociological absurdity rating: 9/10. Useful at dinner parties, questionable when crossing a savannah.

3. Social Darwinism: The Theory That Launched a Thousand Colonial Guilt Trips

You know a theory is bonkers when it starts with Darwin and ends with: “Therefore, rich white men are the pinnacle of human evolution.”

Social Darwinism, most closely associated with Herbert Spencer, took natural selection and applied it to social structures—except poorly. It argued that those at the top of the social hierarchy were there because they were the “fittest,” and the poor were just losing the evolutionary game.

Used to justify: Colonialism, capitalism, racism, imperial tea sets, and your great-great-uncle Gerald’s belief that wealth equals moral superiority.

Unintended comedy: The rich were said to be “naturally superior,” even if they were inbred aristocrats who thought spoons were for stabbing cheese.

Sociological absurdity rating: 11/10. Basically weaponised Darwin to explain why Jeffrey owns a yacht and Susan works three jobs.

4. The Sociology of Smell: Olfactory Class Warfare

Enter olfactory sociology, where smell is no longer a sensory experience but a social minefield. Scholars like Constance Classen argue that odour is culturally constructed and historically loaded.

In medieval Europe, good Christians were thought to smell like flowers, while non-believers were accused of stinking like sulphur (helpful if you needed a theological excuse to avoid bathing).

Modern extensions: Your office microwave fish is no longer just antisocial—it’s a statement of cultural defiance.

Cultural twist: In Japan, body odour is taboo and deodorant is a social duty. In France, natural scent is part of joie de vivre. In British secondary schools, it’s a mix of Lynx Africa and despair.

Sociological absurdity rating: 8/10. Makes every bus ride a sociological case study.

5. Merton’s Strain Theory: The Anarchy in Your Shopping Trolley

Robert Merton’s Strain Theory says that deviance happens when there’s a disconnect between society’s goals (money, success, shiny things) and the means available to achieve them (education, legal employment, not starting an Etsy shop for crystal healing spoons).

In other words: when the rules don’t work for you, you make your own.

Modes of adaptation:

Conformist: Works hard, follows the rules. Eats lentils out of Tupperware.
Innovator: Wants the dream but skips the rules. Probably selling crypto.
Ritualist: Follows the rules but forgot why. Likely works in HR.
Retreatist: Gives up entirely. Living in a yurt.
Rebel: Starts a commune and a zine.

Modern spin: Shoplifting from Tesco = symbolic rejection of capitalist oppression. TikTok dances = rebellion against wage labour (…maybe).

Sociological absurdity rating: 7/10. Sounds deep until you realise it explains everything and nothing simultaneously.

6. Postmodernism: Academic Nihilism with Better Typography

Postmodernism isn’t really a theory—it’s a refusal to have one. It tells us that reality is fragmented, truth is relative, and nothing means anything except what we pretend it does. Basically, it’s the sociology version of that one mate who questions everything until you can’t remember how breathing works.

Key features:

Disdain for grand narratives
Everything is a social construct
Irony as a survival tactic

Used to explain: Why 90s adverts were weird. Why memes are postmodern poetry. Why your dissertation got a 2:1 even though it had 87 footnotes and made your supervisor cry.

Sociological absurdity rating: 10/10. Like arguing with a mirror that keeps changing shape.

7. The Looking-Glass Selfie

Charles Horton Cooley came up with the Looking-Glass Self, which says our self-concept develops from how we think others perceive us. We imagine how we appear to others, imagine their judgement, and then modify ourselves accordingly.

Translation in the age of Instagram: You’re not really you until someone validates it with a heart emoji and a fire reaction.

Modern crisis: Did I enjoy brunch, or did I only enjoy the idea of looking like I enjoyed brunch? Is that me, or just my face in Valencia filter?

Sociological absurdity rating: 8/10. Existential dread wrapped in a selfie.

Sociology, You Strange and Beautiful Beast

Bizarre sociological theories remind us that humans will intellectualise anything—skulls, smells, zebras, and TikTok. And that’s exactly why we love this field. It’s ridiculous. It’s clever. And sometimes, it’s accidentally brilliant.

So next time you smell someone weird on the tube, or question if your reflection is really you, remember: somewhere, a sociologist is writing a paper about it.

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AJ Wright

AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.

As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.

AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.

For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in. Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.

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Surviving the Methodology Chapter: A Guide for the Emotionally Shattered

AJ Wright — Tue, 08 Apr 2025 10:00:00 +0000

Ah, the Methodology chapter: that noble, soul-crushing rite of passage every thesis writer must endure. If you’re currently drafting yours, congratulations! You’re somewhere between hopeful optimism and complete emotional devastation — and that’s perfectly normal.

At untypicable, we don’t believe in sugar-coating academic trauma. Writing your methodology isn’t a logical step-by-step process; it’s a full-blown emotional rollercoaster featuring rage, bargaining, existential dread, and, eventually, a strange sense of peace. Think less “serene intellectual” and more “contestant on The Great British Bake Off discovering their showstopper has collapsed.”

Welcome to your survival guide: a slightly unhinged but entirely accurate journey through the Five Emotional Stages of Writing Your Methodology Chapter.

Strap in — things are about to get messy.

Stage One: Blissful Ignorance (a.k.a. “How Hard Can It Be?”)

At first, you are luminous with confidence.
“Methods? Easy. I’ll just say what I did. Should take, what, an afternoon?”
You make a to-do list with bullet points like:

“Write about interviews.”
“Mention sampling.”
“Nod vaguely at ethics.”

You smugly open a new document. Maybe you even choose a nice font, feeling productive and stylish.
Twenty minutes later, you have written exactly one line:
“This study employed a qualitative approach.”

You sit back, impressed with yourself. Your bibliography sits untouched. You are still whole, still unbroken.

Enjoy this stage. It is fleeting.

Survival Tip:
Frame your blank Word document as a ‘creative opportunity’ rather than ‘the yawning void’.

Stage Two: Full-Blown Academic Rage

The realisation hits.
You’re not just expected to describe what you did — you must justify it like you’re on trial at The Hague. Every choice must be defended against invisible but vicious reviewers in your mind.

You discover terms like:

“ontological stance” (which sounds like a forbidden yoga position)
“epistemological underpinnings” (which you will never spell right first time)
“methodological rigour” (which sounds great until you realise you have none).

You slam your desk. You threaten to quit academia. You Google “can you just vibe your way through a PhD?”
(Spoiler: No.)

At one point, you seriously consider using ‘vibes-based data collection’ and seeing if anyone notices.

Survival Tip:
Swearing loudly at academic articles is a proven method for restoring emotional balance. So is eating biscuits directly out of the packet.

Stage Three: Desperate Bargaining with the Gods of Methodology

You enter a strange phase where you think if you just cite enough people, you can escape responsibility for knowing what you’re talking about.
“As Foucault, Bourdieu, Guba, Lincoln, and possibly Beyoncé have suggested…”

You start to string together sentences like:

“Drawing upon a critical constructivist lens informed by post-structuralist perspectives, this study utilised a mixed methods ethnographic case study within an interpretivist paradigm.”

You don’t know what it means. No one does.
But it sounds profound, and at this point, that’s what matters.

Negotiation tactics include:

Promising to never question your supervisor’s feedback again if they just accept your dodgy justification.
Whispering apologies to every philosopher you’re misrepresenting.

Survival Tip:
If in doubt, stick in the phrase “as appropriate for the research aims” and just keep moving.

Stage Four: Existential Dread and Other Fun New Hobbies

By now, you’ve read so many methodology textbooks that you’ve started ranking them for “vibe” rather than content.
You question everything:

Am I real?
Is knowledge real?
Is this entire thesis just a social construct I can refuse to participate in?

You lose several hours googling “ontology vs epistemology explained simply” and come away more confused than before.
You start to wonder if the entire field of research is an elaborate prank designed to break your spirit.

You now speak exclusively in weary sighs and metaphors.
“My data collection method is… a raft made of tears, adrift on the sea of academic uncertainty.”

Survival Tip:
Accept that at least 80% of other researchers are also winging it. They just hide it behind longer sentences.

Stage Five: Delusional Calm and Wildly Overdue Acceptance

Something shifts.
You hit the point where you no longer care if your epistemological stance is coherent or if you’ve cited the same person five times. You just need it done.

You string your arguments together like fairy lights: loosely, haphazardly, but technically functional.

You submit a draft. Your supervisor sends back comments.
You read them with the detached air of someone floating above their own body.

You are now what is known in technical academic circles as “methodologically feral.”

And honestly?
You’re magnificent.

Survival Tip:
Once you submit it, immediately bribe yourself with something nice — a nap, a takeaway, or a small statue of yourself made entirely from Hobnobs.

The Methodology Survival Kit

If you’re embarking on this journey, make sure you’re equipped with:

A stash of sugary snacks (preferably hidden from yourself to make them feel earned)
At least three tabs open on “what is epistemology” at any given time
A sturdy desk you can weep onto without causing damage
An academic friend you can text “HELP” in all caps without explanation
The unshakeable belief that nobody, nobody, actually fully understands phenomenology

Final Thoughts

Writing the methodology chapter is a uniquely absurd experience — a blend of faux-serious philosophising, genuine existential crisis, and the slow, plodding triumph of getting words on a page.

You won’t come out the other side unchanged.
But you will come out the other side.

Probably.

Good luck, brave scholar. May your reflexivity be critical, your sampling purposeful, and your metaphors appropriately tortured.

Now go forth. And for the love of biscuits, back up your document.