Read Online You're Making Me Hate You by Corey Taylor - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Corey Taylor
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that is called? A wall—hence the saying “dumber than a brick wall.”
It begins with a slow, cautious spinning-head routine, casting empty looks around like a clumsy attempt to cheat from another student’s test answers. If you’re lucky, someone else pulls his or her belt off in plain sight so you do that, hastily trying to keep up. None of this matters, of course: someone always forgets something major on the list. They walk into the metal detector with a pocket full of laundry change and a wristwatch. They push their bags through the X-ray, loaded with their computers and three half-full bottles of soda. Coats come off … then go back on. Then the coats come back off, get wadded up, and are stuffed into the same bin as the computer. After security cautions them against this, they then place the coat with their shoes. But now they have to sort out their bags. This process is repeated with each person who gets to the conveyor belt. God forbid you get behind a family with more than one kid. By the time they have shoved everything and everyone through the machines, you’ve missed your flight and you should just gohome. It’s repulsive. Here’s a piece of serious advice for anyone who clogs the throughways for the rest of us: if you’ve never flown before, take a bus.
With any bit of luck, you finally get through and to the other side, the gates, and the shops. Welcome to the most expensive convenience stores in the world. This has been a source of contention for everyone I know and every comedian on the planet who dares to rip open this tried and true mine of punitive gold. The prices in these newsstands, bookshops, and tiny markets are unbelievable, and that’s on a good day with a fistful of twenties. Plus, there’s a part of me that wonders why there are so many types of clothing for sale in the terminal stores. The sports tees and hats, I comprehend; souvenirs have been shilled since pharaohs offered parting pyramids to camel riders on the go. But suits? Cashmere sweaters? Dressy shoes and ties? Dresses and skirts and scarves (oh my)? When the hell did this become commerce for shit heels just passing through? Who in the sweet shit is showing up at the airport naked? I have never found myself in the market for a new suit of clothes while on a layover, no matter how fucking far I am flying. And even when I was drinking, I was never in need of a giant bottle of whiskey the size of a spare tire. How about this: instead of all these designer clothing stores and Worlds of Whiskeys, how about a fucking smoking lounge or two? DADDY NEEDS HIS FIX, YOU FuckERS!
Ahem … sorry.
Anyway, one $12 coffee, a pair of neon-green dress socks, and a bag of stale Chex Mix later, you can now start looking for your gate. But you should know better—it’s not that simple. Before any of that shit can happen, you have Where Am I to deal with. Simply put, Where Am I is a minefield of dickheads who are wandering around
slowly
, with no idea where the hell they areor where they are going … and they’re always in front of
me
. I have never wanted to kick old people so hard in my life. I have never felt such vile, bitter hatred for couples in matching Adidas gear before, and rarely does it come up outside of airports. There was that lovely husband and wife from Manchester who nearly ran me over with their Razor scooters, but that might have been my fault: I was on a bender eight years ago and had one of my own shoes off, brandishing it in an effort to fight off invisible beasts while they were trying to get by me. To Mr. and Mrs. Appleston, I sincerely apologize once again, and I do hope you’ve gotten the sight back in your respective eyes. Let’s hear it for the Applestons! By the way, guys, I did end up slaying that Smaug-like bastard.
Where Am I is akin to searching for an address on a dark night on a street you’ve never been down before. You power down to a crawl, oblivious and squinty, trying in earnest to discover what
It begins with a slow, cautious spinning-head routine, casting empty looks around like a clumsy attempt to cheat from another student’s test answers. If you’re lucky, someone else pulls his or her belt off in plain sight so you do that, hastily trying to keep up. None of this matters, of course: someone always forgets something major on the list. They walk into the metal detector with a pocket full of laundry change and a wristwatch. They push their bags through the X-ray, loaded with their computers and three half-full bottles of soda. Coats come off … then go back on. Then the coats come back off, get wadded up, and are stuffed into the same bin as the computer. After security cautions them against this, they then place the coat with their shoes. But now they have to sort out their bags. This process is repeated with each person who gets to the conveyor belt. God forbid you get behind a family with more than one kid. By the time they have shoved everything and everyone through the machines, you’ve missed your flight and you should just gohome. It’s repulsive. Here’s a piece of serious advice for anyone who clogs the throughways for the rest of us: if you’ve never flown before, take a bus.
With any bit of luck, you finally get through and to the other side, the gates, and the shops. Welcome to the most expensive convenience stores in the world. This has been a source of contention for everyone I know and every comedian on the planet who dares to rip open this tried and true mine of punitive gold. The prices in these newsstands, bookshops, and tiny markets are unbelievable, and that’s on a good day with a fistful of twenties. Plus, there’s a part of me that wonders why there are so many types of clothing for sale in the terminal stores. The sports tees and hats, I comprehend; souvenirs have been shilled since pharaohs offered parting pyramids to camel riders on the go. But suits? Cashmere sweaters? Dressy shoes and ties? Dresses and skirts and scarves (oh my)? When the hell did this become commerce for shit heels just passing through? Who in the sweet shit is showing up at the airport naked? I have never found myself in the market for a new suit of clothes while on a layover, no matter how fucking far I am flying. And even when I was drinking, I was never in need of a giant bottle of whiskey the size of a spare tire. How about this: instead of all these designer clothing stores and Worlds of Whiskeys, how about a fucking smoking lounge or two? DADDY NEEDS HIS FIX, YOU FuckERS!
Ahem … sorry.
Anyway, one $12 coffee, a pair of neon-green dress socks, and a bag of stale Chex Mix later, you can now start looking for your gate. But you should know better—it’s not that simple. Before any of that shit can happen, you have Where Am I to deal with. Simply put, Where Am I is a minefield of dickheads who are wandering around
slowly
, with no idea where the hell they areor where they are going … and they’re always in front of
me
. I have never wanted to kick old people so hard in my life. I have never felt such vile, bitter hatred for couples in matching Adidas gear before, and rarely does it come up outside of airports. There was that lovely husband and wife from Manchester who nearly ran me over with their Razor scooters, but that might have been my fault: I was on a bender eight years ago and had one of my own shoes off, brandishing it in an effort to fight off invisible beasts while they were trying to get by me. To Mr. and Mrs. Appleston, I sincerely apologize once again, and I do hope you’ve gotten the sight back in your respective eyes. Let’s hear it for the Applestons! By the way, guys, I did end up slaying that Smaug-like bastard.
Where Am I is akin to searching for an address on a dark night on a street you’ve never been down before. You power down to a crawl, oblivious and squinty, trying in earnest to discover what
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