by Corey Taylor
Remember what I said about follow-through? This is another example of that same issue, the performance in the bedroom, so to speak. The liberals and the progressives and the Democrats and the Left all love to plan and plot and talk and plan some more, but when the work needs to be done, it’s like they couldn’t possibly be bothered to get down and dirty when it really matters. This is why the elites have so little practical understanding half the time: they’re so used to hiring someone else to do the living for them. They muster up enough stamina to rail against the trials and tribulations that come from a party that only really wants to fund the military or their golf vacations, but when we need them to barrel down and get ready to rumble, they all conveniently “missed their bus.” When it all comes down, the American people respect those who at least act like they’re ready to get to work. I can’t say that about three-fourths of the people currently affiliated with the Democratic Party, and even if I’m mistaken, that doesn’t mean other people haven’t come to the same assumption. Sometimes you’ve got to get those knees dirty just so you fit in with everybody else who’s down digging in the fucking mud. There’s no shame in it, and there’s certainly nothing to really complain about when you start to think about it. You can’t maintain a political party if you’re too busy making everyone feel like they’re not welcome. Identity goes both ways, and just assuming that anyone who looks or talks one way or another is going to be a Republican or, at any rate, a detriment, then you don’t understand people. You don’t understand society. You don’t understand the feelings of a people who desperately need to be healed but don’t know how to do it when their leaders are making us all feel like we’re too different to have anything in common.
If Hillary could’ve remembered that, she might’ve had a chance. I still think she would’ve been a better president than the Cheeto, but sadly, she came off more like the White Queen than the Lady President. I pray that history rights the wrongs that so many muckraking bastards slung her way, but until that day, we can only hope that one or any Republican candidate has the grace in defeat that she has shown (unlike her supporters). If that simple example doesn’t soften the glare of accusation against her, then these sawed-off motherless pricks can kiss my ass faster than you can reply with, “but her emails!” I hope the liberals stop drinking the purified bottled water around that time as well, seeing as the conservatives seem to get a sick joy out of pissing in it at the source. Let’s just hope they didn’t eat asparagus before they let it go—you’ll smell it for miles. Then again, I just wish these “smart” Dems weren’t that dumb.
Maybe it isn’t too late to become a Libertarian…
CHAPTER 6
THE GREATEST COUNTRY ON TURF
I WAS DRIVING AROUND IN THE SEPTIC CESSPOOL I LIKE to refer to as Los Angeles, California, one beautifully shitty day when a rich person’s personalized license plate nearly pushed me to the brink of a Death Proof auto-violence rampage. Now that I’ve written that out, it makes me realize I’ve almost been driven (PUN!) to murdering behind the wheel quite a bit in California. I’m not sure why this is the case. It could be because I have unresolved anger issues that are in deep need of psychoanalysis. Another reason is that people in that Pacific coastal state have the urgency of a loose stool being pushed by a flaccid sphincter. Yeah, yeah, yeah, sue me for being a cock punch—those indy hippies need to stop saving shit and get the fuck out of my damn way. I don’t care what kind of hair wax they use on their taint bristles, they don’t need to walk slowly across streets or drive glacially while they talk about said sack wax.
Sorry, I’ll get on with it.
Anywho, I was driving to Sphere Studio where Stone Sour was recording Hydrograd when a stoplight caught me before I could hammer the gas and get through it. So I was sitting there, listening to Ludacris, when my gaze gradually began to comprehend the Chevy Tahoe in front of me. Now, I have no issues with Tahoes—I have one myself. However, this one had a lot of trimmings that screamed “ball bag.” There were bedazzled accoutrements all over the truck for no real reason. I could’ve understood if it were a girl’s car (PROFILING!), but it also had chauvinistic stickers on it, like “No Fat Chicks” and “Ass, Gas, or Grass.” I guess it would be chauvinistic of me to assume the sex of the driver either way, so I’ll just say it sucked. Truly, surely, eternally sucked like a vortex of hardcore garbage abuse. Imagine the worst thing you could possibly think of on a genetic, emotional, and elemental level, then imagine it behind the wheel of this fucking truck.
I haven’t even gotten to the fucking license plate yet.
It was while I was reading the painful stickers that I saw the vanity plate. I only use that term—vanity plate—when it comes to horrid attempts at humor. I took one look at it and knew that I either needed to get as far away from this car as I could or succumb to the urge to ram the shit out of it in order to get it off the road and save us all. Maybe I was being too harsh. You tell me—do you think this is funny?
“WASKLY 1”
Yep. That’s what it said.
I’ve got to tell you: sometimes I question even the little bit of credit I give most people for their intelligence. But think about it this way: these vanity plates are pretty expensive. Most are between $80 and $100. Next, take into consideration the fact that most states have stringent laws against vanity plates (isn’t that some shit? They’ll offer them to you, but then they’ll ticket you for having them). So you’re spending a lot of money for something you may be ticketed for, and the best fucking idea you could possibly come up with in line while at the DMV was “WASKLY 1”? I mean, REALLY? You’re such a huge Warner Brother Cartoons fan that you felt compelled to paraphrase a secondary character and have it pressed into steel? I know I may sound like an uber-maniac right now, but Judas Ahab and Don Quixote! WASKLY 1?
This could be the real epidemic in America: pure, unspoiled, and manic ignorance. I can’t think of another country on the planet where the dichotomy between savvy and stupid has reached such huge proportions that Evel Knievel would have gladly jumped it in the 1970s. Some people treat real information like poisoned apples, while others hoard real information just to discredit people without it in a disdainful manner. I don’t know. At this point maybe there’s no saving any of us. There are so many things to worry about these days: morons who believe fake news stories, then attack people; morons who believe every conspiracy theory about the current administration; morons who are a part of the current administration; morons who used to be a part of the current administration (BYE, FLYNN)… and something just occurred to me: I’m worried about the cupcakes. What do we do if the cupcakes become self-aware and rise up against us, their creators? What do you mean we don’t have a plan? I AM EXTREMELY WORRIED ABOUT THE CUPCAKES!
You get my point.
You know those strange personality tests you can take online? The ones where you answer a bunch of weird leading questions to find the answers to queries such as, “Which member of Star Trek are you?” or “Which house of Hogwarts would you be sorted into?” or even “Which cast member from Supernatural would you fall in love with?” You know the ones—they’re never right, no matter how many times you take it to try to end up with Dean, but you always wind up with Castiel, and that’s fine, don’t get me wrong, but Cas always seems a little… never mind, you didn’t read that, and I never wrote it. This was just an example! It was a joke! Who cares if maybe I know someone who might have been burned because of unrequited love! Right? No? You’re not buying it, are you? Damnit… FINE! Abort! ABORT MISSION!
Anyway, you know the tests I mean. They give you a little commemorative meme to congratulate you on “being a member of… GRYFFINDOR House!” or “according to your answers, you are… SPOCK!” It’s a tedious process for very little payoff, really. Still, it got me thinking about something interesting: What if there were a test like this, a sorting-by-personality test I mean, that would tell you what part of the country you should live in? Now, I know that seems a little like prof
iling and/or prejudice. But imagine that: taking the test, being assigned a “quadrant,” and suddenly official-looking people were knocking on your door, ready to assist you in your “relocation.” Insane, huh? Well, the truth is that a lot of people in America think that’s actually a good idea. Doesn’t exactly smack of “freedom of choice” or “open borders,” now does it? Oh, and not to toss salt in the craw or anything, but the Nazis did that with the Jews, shuttling them into as many ghettos as possible before the unfortunate move toward the camps. When you’re trying to uproot folks from their homes and their lives simply because you don’t agree with their way of life, their beliefs, their marriage, or their rights in general, you are no longer living in a democracy. You are living in a fascist state, and I doubt that anyone who served this country to preserve freedom would agree that that’s what he or she fought for.
I’m getting the feeling that the lynch mob is starting to muster, setting their sights on little ol’ me and my big ol’ neck. I could be wrong, but I can smell the torches lighting up, so let me clear some brush and move into some friendlier waters for a few minutes. We can just all chill out and relax for a second or two, catch our breath, reset, and hopefully find some ground around us that won’t shake or quake with fear and resentment. This seems to be the crisis these days: whatever do we do when none of us can come up with a simple plan on how to not fucking fight all the time? Shit on shingles, we can’t even have a casual chat about things like TV shows or cars anymore. I’ve seen grown-ass men cursing each other to early baldness and premature ejaculation because one hates NCIS and the other loves it, quoting all the Gibbs Rules while his opponent keeps from spitting in the other’s face. That happened last month. I backed out of spitting distance before fleeing for drier climes. I remember thinking, And today started out with such potential.
Everybody needs to fight sometimes, but not over how awesome Abby is. That just goes without saying: Abby rules. But I have strong feelings about a lot of that dumbass shit in our country. We’re going to pick a bunch of it apart very soon—like gun control and reproductive rights (I know I have the daddy parts, but I promise, I’m very pro-choice). Some of you are most likely going to ball up some fists and dog-ear this book a little too violently at these revelations, and that’s fine too. It’s my right to say what I think just as much as it’s your right to disagree with what I have to say—even if you are wrong. Such is the fate of the American: one person’s absolutes are another person’s difference of opinion. I have several friends, on both sides of the aisle, I am constantly debating shit with. All it takes is a hard restart at the end of it all to get back on the Friend Train. We’ve gotten good at it because it means that much to us: the spirited quarrels and derring-do spiraling about our heads like a Cirque du Soleil show. Can you imagine how boring it would be to agree with everything that everyone said? Christ, I’d slice my own bollocks off just to have something to argue over.
You might be thinking, Corey Taylor is a COMMIE! He hates our freedom! He hates our guns! He hates… hell, he hates ANYTHING AMERICAN!
You’d be… well, you’d be a little right, but not really.
It’s silly to claim that I hate anything American. This country is loaded with awesome shit, no matter its history or track record. Now, granted, as the living embodiment of nearly everyone’s boogeyman/devil/oppressor (that, of course, being the white, heterosexual, meat-eating, atheist, American male), I feel like this might be a lesson in futility, trying to get most of you to see this place as anything other than the Orwellian ideal or a future state of Russia. You’re absolutely right to regard me as automatically having a shit-load of strikes against me, rendering my arguments or endorsements a bit on the dingy side, to put it mildly. I get it—I really do. I read the paper (fuckin’ A right, I still read the paper), I watch the news (fuckin’ A right, I still have some trust in the MSM, aka the mainstream media), and I spend a lot of time on social media sites (fuckin’ A right, I… actually I have no pithy retort for that proclamation—a man my age probably shouldn’t be spending that much time on Twitter with those maniacs nor sending that many selfies out on Instagram; I can only apologize so much). So yeah, I like to think of myself as pretty informed. There is turmoil and anger rampant in the United States of America.
But if we all look pretty closely, we might see some really cool shit to be thankful for.
What about turducken?
Yes, you’re reading that absolutely correctly: turducken. For those of you not familiar with what this is, let me explain it to you as best as I can, hopefully without a lot of snickering and giggling—or, worse yet, retching and vomit noises. For any vegans out there, you have my condolences, and you may want to skip ahead to a paragraph that feels fairly meatless. For any carnivores still committed to the definition of the aforementioned turducken, strap your asses to those planks and get ready to be either repelled or triggered into hunger pangs. Are you ready? Here we go: turducken (and, god help me, I hope I’m spelling that right) is, simply put, a chicken stuffed in a duck stuffed into a turkey. I can almost see you scratching at the gray lady upstairs. That’s right, and yes, I will repeat myself: turducken is chicken stuffed in a duck stuffed in a turkey. It’s kind of like an original American Jenga puzzle, flossing and flying through the layers and trying to get that one perfect bite with equal parts of the three birds in tow on your fork. Well, of course they take the fucking bones out—what kind of a crazy fucking question is that?
I bring it up because it is an example of pure American ingenuity. This dish owes its conception to the specialty meat shops of Louisiana, and although whom to credit with its invention is certainly up for discussion, the fingerprints of this beloved amalgam of meats is pure Americana. You can’t escape the audacity of the enterprise: anyone could put one bird inside of another. But who in the sweetest of motherfucks would think to stuff one inside one, then stuff those two combined inside another? “Simply because you can” just doesn’t begin to truly cover it. It takes a keen eye for the best way to super-size the fuck out of something already pretty fucking bitchin’. It’s a culinary masterpiece that will never cry “fowl” (I’M NOT SORRY!), and although our British cousins have a reputable offshoot called gooducken (chicken stuffed in a duck stuffed in a goose), it genuinely doesn’t come near the rotisserie beauty that is the definite article, turducken. If you haven’t tried it, I’ll be honest, it’s a bit greasy. Okay, it might be really greasy. Also, depending on where you get it from, it might have a semigamey taste to it. Nothing to worry about: that could be your taste buds getting used to so much poultry all at once. I will say that if you’re going to get into your first bout with turducken, make sure you pick a light workweek. It does have a tendency to fight back, and you should look for the nearest exit if you understand the vernacular. I’m not saying it’s not delicious; I am saying you might shit someone else’s pants.
See? Off to a great start on this American Cavalcade of High-Velocity Awesome! What else can we talk about? Highways made out of shredded recycled tires? No, that couldn’t be us—too thoughtful. I will say I am a fan of some of the more “on the edge” inventions in the last few years. The Bacon Bowl definitely comes to mind. I ranted about this on my tour for You’re Making Me Hate You. Christ, you want to talk about defeating the purpose of eating a fucking salad in the first place, here comes a device that allows you to create salad bowls out of bacon. The Bacon Bowl is a contraption that does what it says. But how many other applications can something that fucking specific have, really? You going to try to make a bowl out of bologna with your Bacon Bowl? It won’t work; it’s a different viscosity. Maybe a crepe bowl, but you’d be better off working with one of those taco bowl makers if you’re going to try that; that would seem about the right speed for that. If the creators of the Bacon Bowl want to fucking impress me, hit me up when they’ve patented and mass-produced the Bacon Piñata. That is something I would be fucking stoked about! Could you imagine a giant, fuck-off piñata made of
motherfucking bacon?! Holy China shit! I’d shit twice, eat some more, shit again, and then die. I can’t think of anything more impressive than the Bacon Piñata.
That is, unless you want to talk about the Bug-A-Salt.
Now, when I was a kid, I used to go out running the streets, empty lots, and fields, looking for places to hang out and play with my friends. Well, I say “play,” but really I mean “smoke cigarettes and divvy up stolen goods while getting high and drunk.” Yeah, I agree: they were simpler times. Anyway, there were some places where we could go, then there were some places that were straight up verboten. These were usually fields owned by someone else who kept an eye on them for fear of shit-stains like us coming around and either defacing an outbuilding or setting fire to some tall grass by accident. The reason I bring it up is because the threat was almost always the same: “The farmer who owns that lot, he walks around with a shotgun loaded with nothing but shells full of rock salt! It won’t kill you, but it’ll sting like crazy—it might even blind you!” Maybe it was just the people I hung out with, but we were convinced that everyone who guarded their property had nothing but rock salt to use as ammunition. In hindsight I have a sneaking suspicion that my friends and I were just really fucking stupid… or high… or both—yeah, that’s a possibility too.
