Read Online You're Making Me Hate You by Corey Taylor - Free Book Online
Authors: Corey Taylor
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matter what these people have done online, over the phone, through intermediaries, or what not, nothing makes sense now and everything has to been redone …
immediately
. Seat assignment? Change it. A checked bag that wasn’t part of the original reservation? Add it and they’re not paying for it. A carry-on bag that is the size of a Mini Cooper? It’ll fit under their seat, they’ve flown with it a million times, and they refuse to check it. You got a problem with that? Get your manager over here; they want to register a complaint. People who work the ticket counter are in a no-win situation 99 percent of the time. In the past this might have been terms for suicide or at least a bit of disgruntled payback. But after 9/11 the power has shifted to the staff. Go ahead—run your mouth. You’ll find yourself on the no-fly list faster than you can inhale cool air for a hot-winded retort.
If you manage to get past this labyrinth of rabid hostility, it’s then a race to get to the security line—that is, if you’re not heading outside for that last-minute cigarette at an illegal distancefrom their front door. Now, the security line is where things start to get interesting. The transition from Me-Me-Me to WTF begins here, amongst your fellow jetsetters and chart hoppers. It’s like searching for a clean drink while wading through brackish waters: you never know what you’re going to taste with each step of the way. You get the self-absorption, sure, but you also get the crushing reduction of brain cells as well. People can’t figure out whether they’re in a hurry or whether they have a clue to where they’re going or even why they’re going there to begin with. You eventually get to the front, TSA checks your credentials, and you make your way to the second trial: the detectors. This is, regretfully, where the “joy” of WTF begins.
Back in the line marching toward security clearance there appears to be a general emptying of the intellectual bowels, like a frightened person making pee-pee in the pants region. Brainiacs become dullards in the blink of an eye. Suddenly something as simple as showing your driver’s license or passport to an official becomes a desperate search of every pocket while blinking uncontrollably. Even if you have your ticket and your ID in your hand, people who normally have a firm grasp of how NEXT IN LINE works now falter and pause, unsure whether it’s their turn to go. I’ve seen virgins more self-assured while fumbling at three-hook bras. This culminates in the stupidity of the metal detectors and other more advanced booths of their kind. Trouble is, they have to sort out their shit at the assembly line to the X-ray machine first. This is a problem because apparently it’s the first time for everyone standing there.
In their defense, countries all over the world have slightly different variations on the rules of this engagement. Some places are shoes on, and others are shoes off. Some lands give not one hot fiery fuck for iPads and stuff; others advise you to remove them and leave them behind for your loved ones to retrieve. However,America is virtually unchanged in the last decade: shoes, belts, and jewelry off; computer out; no liquids; no toiletries over three ounces without a plastic bag; and empty your pockets of all the garbage you’ve been collecting since you arrived at the airport. This is standard procedure. Not only that, but there are security officers screaming these things in your face at different volumes and various ways while you’re standing there. It’s not fucking rocket science: it’s all
right there
—on all the signs, on everyone’s breath and minds … it’s all right there. And like David Copperfield—the magic one, not the Dickens one—turning the Statue of Liberty into unblocked sky, this knowledge vanishes. What is left in its place appears to be a person who has about as much use as a door with no handles or hinges. Do you know what a door like
immediately
. Seat assignment? Change it. A checked bag that wasn’t part of the original reservation? Add it and they’re not paying for it. A carry-on bag that is the size of a Mini Cooper? It’ll fit under their seat, they’ve flown with it a million times, and they refuse to check it. You got a problem with that? Get your manager over here; they want to register a complaint. People who work the ticket counter are in a no-win situation 99 percent of the time. In the past this might have been terms for suicide or at least a bit of disgruntled payback. But after 9/11 the power has shifted to the staff. Go ahead—run your mouth. You’ll find yourself on the no-fly list faster than you can inhale cool air for a hot-winded retort.
If you manage to get past this labyrinth of rabid hostility, it’s then a race to get to the security line—that is, if you’re not heading outside for that last-minute cigarette at an illegal distancefrom their front door. Now, the security line is where things start to get interesting. The transition from Me-Me-Me to WTF begins here, amongst your fellow jetsetters and chart hoppers. It’s like searching for a clean drink while wading through brackish waters: you never know what you’re going to taste with each step of the way. You get the self-absorption, sure, but you also get the crushing reduction of brain cells as well. People can’t figure out whether they’re in a hurry or whether they have a clue to where they’re going or even why they’re going there to begin with. You eventually get to the front, TSA checks your credentials, and you make your way to the second trial: the detectors. This is, regretfully, where the “joy” of WTF begins.
Back in the line marching toward security clearance there appears to be a general emptying of the intellectual bowels, like a frightened person making pee-pee in the pants region. Brainiacs become dullards in the blink of an eye. Suddenly something as simple as showing your driver’s license or passport to an official becomes a desperate search of every pocket while blinking uncontrollably. Even if you have your ticket and your ID in your hand, people who normally have a firm grasp of how NEXT IN LINE works now falter and pause, unsure whether it’s their turn to go. I’ve seen virgins more self-assured while fumbling at three-hook bras. This culminates in the stupidity of the metal detectors and other more advanced booths of their kind. Trouble is, they have to sort out their shit at the assembly line to the X-ray machine first. This is a problem because apparently it’s the first time for everyone standing there.
In their defense, countries all over the world have slightly different variations on the rules of this engagement. Some places are shoes on, and others are shoes off. Some lands give not one hot fiery fuck for iPads and stuff; others advise you to remove them and leave them behind for your loved ones to retrieve. However,America is virtually unchanged in the last decade: shoes, belts, and jewelry off; computer out; no liquids; no toiletries over three ounces without a plastic bag; and empty your pockets of all the garbage you’ve been collecting since you arrived at the airport. This is standard procedure. Not only that, but there are security officers screaming these things in your face at different volumes and various ways while you’re standing there. It’s not fucking rocket science: it’s all
right there
—on all the signs, on everyone’s breath and minds … it’s all right there. And like David Copperfield—the magic one, not the Dickens one—turning the Statue of Liberty into unblocked sky, this knowledge vanishes. What is left in its place appears to be a person who has about as much use as a door with no handles or hinges. Do you know what a door like
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