by Corey Taylor
Now, thirty fucking years later, here comes this fucking invention called the “Bug-A-Salt.” How do I sum this up? The Bug-A-Salt is a plastic Nerf-looking shotgun of sorts specially designed for loading with table salt so you can shoot flies and other insects with it. The commercials are fucking legit too: every time they shoot said insects, they’re always sitting on some sort of foodstuff, like green Jell-O that wiggles madly when the spray hits it, or a nicely assembled fruit bowl, or a loaf of fucking bread. It is high-larious to say the absolute least. I very nearly ordered a couple dozen for my own house—not for the insects but to keep vigilant watch on any transgressions on my lawn by teenagers, especially if I didn’t like the cut of their jib. Yes, I’ve effectively become the cranky crotchety cunt fending off intruders on his postage stamp of grass for fear they’ll try to take it… or just mess up my grass, really. Plus, I don’t want them wearing out a path on my shit.
Folks, I’ve done a lot of things in my life I’m very fucking proud of. I’ve written hit songs and popular books, been in movies and on television, and toured the world, and I’ve had a fucking blast doing it. But if I can be brutally truthful with you for this one moment, I’ll tell you: there’s a part of me that would seriously like to kick my own ass for not coming up with something as crazy and unique as a goddamn Bug-A-Salt. I’m the old lady in the Kohl commercial who lives the full life, only to be hit with a flour sack full of regret because she died before getting to take a bath in some nifty tub across the way. That also could mean I watch a little too much fucking television. Yes, because I don’t sleep a lot. I don’t sleep because I can’t stop thinking. I can’t stop thinking because I’m a manic nightmare of a human. I’m a manic nightmare of a human because I don’t sleep… you get the picture.
I still want one of those things. Then again, so do a lot of dumb people.
Look, I’ve gone on record several times stating that I am not immune to this idiocy. I’m just as dipped in dipshit as the rest of you cretins. The difference? I make this shit look really good. Okay, maybe that’s not completely true. In fact, I’m quite sure there are people—who I enjoy, mind you—who are very aware of my sporadic bouts with the mental vacuum. Take for instance the sad, lonely tale of the immortal dumbass question, “Bear or goat?” Yes, this is a true story. Yes, the memory alone is incredibly embarrassing for yours truly. Yes, the thought of retelling it to you makes me want to puke across my stress-induced cold sores. Am I going to tell it anyway? Of course I am, because I’ve always been very clear that there is very little I will not do in the never-ending quest to keep you pricks entertained. So sit back, relax, nurse the three fingers of Scotch you dumped in your child’s favorite superhero glass because all your fancy ones are dirty as fuck, and we’ll begin.
Some of you may not have heard about this, but many moons ago my wife and I were invited to a taping of Tosh.0. We were super-excited because we rarely get to do stuff like that, so we went with some friends, got a tour of the offices where they write the show, saw the green-screen rooms where a lot of it is filmed, and eventually got to meet Daniel himself. We sat down to watch the taping of the show, which they do twice to allow for different jokes that pop up and for more genuine excitement. During the filming Daniel was looking over at me and asking me about Slipknot lyrics while also demonstrating the alternative interpretations he’d come up with for songs like “Eyeless” (there’s no real way to spell them correctly, so I’ll just put “ASHGREATTNEUNFRNYBRBBCviu”!) At the end of the first taping there was a segment where he tried to set the record for most people in a line being electrocuted at once with a power cell for an electric fence. He then explained that the box was set on “goat,” but he hadn’t found anyone to try it on the “bear” setting. Between takes he intimated that he should have it brought out and get a member of the audience to try it out. He then looked directly at me.
I knew then that I wasn’t going to leave that night… without getting electrocuted.
And so the show rolled—once again with the tapings, the jokes, different jokes, different reactions, and so on. Cut to the electrocution bit. The box is now out on the sound stage on a chair with two long metal wires coming off it. The joke is said: “Luckily this was set on goat—we couldn’t find anyone to try it out set on bear,” and immediately he looks in my direction. Daniel Tosh smiles and says, “You want to try it?” Of course I said “no”—as I was standing and making my way to the stage. He turned it on and moved out of the way for me to grab the wires (that was the worst part: I had to grab the wires and do it to myself). After a few botched attempts to get a hold of them and complete the circuit, I was finally successful. The shock was tremendous; I immediately dropped the wires and skipped around the stage, cursing the man and his new-fangled lightning machine. To his true credit, as soon as I did it and dropped the wires, he snatched them up and did it too so I wouldn’t be the only one in dire pain. By the way, you can see all of this in the special features of Tosh’s DVD Completely Serious, or on You-Tube, as it’s been posted up there in the subsequent years. The show was wrapped, we all laughed, and it was considered a great taping. If only I’d gone home after that, I wouldn’t be telling this little revealing anecdote…
After the rest of the audience had left, we again went backstage to visit with some of the writers and with Daniel. I was still drinking at the time, so I helped myself to a couple of beers. We were all talking and having fun. I excused myself to go find the bathroom. When I came out, Daniel was standing there and asked me if I was feeling okay. I said for someone who’d just been shocked to shit and back, sure, I felt great. He told me he wanted to make sure because of the lawyers and whatnot. “I’m just glad the thing was set on goat,” I said with a laugh. He chuckled at my memory of the joke—but I wasn’t quoting the joke. You’d think that a man who grew up in Iowa would have a grasp on the workings of an electrical fence circuit. I’d love to blame the beer, but I can’t for one reason: I asked him again, “Was that thing set on goat or bear? Anybody try that high a setting?” He kind of giggled and shook his head, wandering off. It wasn’t until later when it suddenly hit me: THERE ARE NO ANIMAL SETTINGS ON THOSE BOXES. I’d basically made a legitimate fucking fool out of myself in front of one of the smartest, funniest cats on the planet. To this day I wonder if he has ever thought, Dude, that singer for Slipknot really took that joke fucking literally.
Eh. If it ever came down to it, I’d just blame the bolt of energy that had charged through me for my momentary lapse of reason. I’m sure I’d win in court, but in my head I’d still be the fuckhole who made an ass out of himself. I know it’s not a specifically American thing to do, but it feels supremely intense when Americans wipe their ass with their gray matter. I have a theory about this: I think it’s because that much freedom allows you to go off the deep end with what you choose to accept or reject as real useful information. We talked earlier about some of the conspiracies running rampant out there. From collusion with Russia to the basement of Comet Pizza, it’s a fucking madhouse. People pick or disregard based on their own passions, not based on reporting or facts. That’s because, much like the regulatory systems on our various branches of government, there are no true checks and balances kept in place. The “news story” has been outdone by the “editorial.” It’s like these fucking mooks who insist that creationism should still be taught right next to evolution in school because, they claim, there are “too many holes in the theory and people deserve a choice.” ON WHAT FUCKING PLANET ARE THERE HOLES IN THE THEORY OF EVOLUTION? They are so fucking terrified by the comfort of facts that they will fight common sense tooth and nail until they die. The same thing goes for these idiots who perpetuate “alternative facts” and fucking “fake news.” The levels of petulance and privilege in people who are perfectly all right with advancing these ideas are so far off the charts that I can’t fucking believe they haven’t been rounded up, stuffed into mental facilities for observation, and, finally, singled out for shock therapy. Th
e people who teach creationism over evolution based on religion are most likely the same people who teach physics based on cartoons: morons.
That reminds me: remember Howard Dean? Yeah, I’ve talked about him before. Howard Dean’s path to the presidency was essentially destroyed with a “Byah!” That was it; that was all it took to ruin a man’s climb to the top. One big “Byah!” and it was over. I’m sure there was more to it than that—there always is. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Al Gore never ran again. Maybe there’s something massive in his closet too. Now you can be a viable candidate while still grabbing them by the pussy, like a fucking bowling ball for Christ’s sake. One man’s “Byah!” is another man’s boom stick, I guess. Plus, who’d have thought we’d be able to Google nudes of the First Lady? No, I do not mean Ivanka Trump, and I am just as fucking grossed out as everyone else who refers to Trump’s daughter as the First Lady. Then again, if you saw some of the footage of the way he acts and what he says about her, I suppose I’d be confused if I were the American public as well. Does that put it all together for you now? More people think Trump’s daughter is his wife than people who think he was elected legitimately. Nah, don’t Google that: I just made that stat up and I ain’t even sorry for it. The Cheeto can kiss my ass.
Sorry. Let’s get back to more things that make America great. (Not “again.” This country has always been great; white people just wish it were “whiter again.”)
All right, fine: the country’s pulled some shit on quite a few people. Hundreds of years of persecution and slavery is hard to sweep under the rug. Incarceration and forced interment has a way of taking the shine off the American Apple. We—as a nation, mind you—have mistreated our citizens of color and our creed so bad over the years that not even “reparations” have settled the score. Most white folks think the only colors in our country that count are red, white, and blue: white people with red necks and blue collars. Now, I got nothing against blue collars. Without them, we have no foundation. We’d have no roads, no buildings, no utilities, no anything. However, there are people other than whites who are part of the working class. Someday I’d like to do a study on why most Caucasians aren’t very inclusive. Until then I’ll keep gently reminding the gentiles that they are in fact not the only fucking people in this country and on this planet. Get your fucking shit together, honkies, and if you don’t like it, you can fucking suck it, Trebek.
Anyway, enough about that shit. Let’s talk about man buns.
I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I am going to shit on a gigantic part of our culture right now. It’s not because it’s specifically American—the Chinese and Japanese were using versions of the man bun centuries ago. Hell, even David Beckham was wearing one a few years before it was officially a thing. But leave it to Americans to make it suck. What was once a sign of the warrior class and athleticism became the common hairdo of the pretentious cunts known as the hipsters, by all virtue making it neither hip nor manly. I regret my handful of forays into wearing a pseudo bun because of how shitty everyone around me looked while stuck in them. They all looked like hippie versions of Marvin the Martian auditioning for a role in a shitty western. Bollocks. Then again, I guess you’d have to look that way playing that excuse for “rock” they were going for. That was a great idea: “Hey! As a reaction to all the auto-tuning, beat detecting, pitch correcting, overproducing, super-compressing, and all the other shit that has made modern music suck a bag of soggy soft dicks, we’ll play everything for real, except we’ll only use shit like accordions and banjos while white boys with no talent punch away on Casio samplers! We’ll call it rock!”
That shit doesn’t rock. As interesting as that shit sounds, it’s not rock. You can call it aggressive folk or banjo funk, but not rock. Come on, what the hell? Seriously? Fine, whatever, but let me tell you something: when you go to a hipster concert, you leave and update your status while you wait for a lavender latte and a Lyft. When you go to a rock concert, you’re either too fucking tired to do anything but go home or you’re so drunk that you wake up somewhere, find a way home, and tell your friends all about it. That’s the difference between a real rock concert and that shit that ended up in the “rock” category. Everyone can hate me all they want—this is the face of a man who hasn’t had a fuck to give since 1991. I don’t care about your senseless sensibilities or your fucking vaginal tendencies. You all need to pull your balls and ovaries out of your pockets, roll them around in some mud for a second, and get back in the fucking game because hell is following right behind me, and it don’t give a damn about safe places or feelings or whatever. I’ll paraphrase a great song title: NUT UP OR SHUT UP.
That’s the thing: you think we’re friends. We’re not friends. You think you know me, but you don’t, and I don’t know you from Adam and the Ants. I can almost guarantee you that there are a million things I hate about you, from the way your face is glued to that shitty phone in your hand to the look of annoyance that darkens that same face when someone deigns to step on your privilege sensors by doing something completely uncalled for, like asking if they can borrow an unused chair at your table. I have watched people roll their eyes and turn away like cock-bites because they couldn’t be bothered to deal with the human race for ten fucking seconds. So much of this country is built on ego, elitism, petulance, and anger that it makes my fists ball up when I don’t realize it. You know what bugs me the most about this country? The fact that so many people were so bummed out on Obama that they thought the Cheeto was a viable option. That’s fucking America right there—so much fucking freedom that they’d put themselves in harm’s way a million times over just to prove they were right all along.
Once again, that’s the problem we’re experiencing right now. No one feels like they’re being heard, no matter what’s being said. That’s why the Cheeto has gotten as far he has: by taking advantage of the cultural rift where the silence is reflected back on itself and communication disappears. Twenty years ago Trump would’ve been laughed out of the lobby of his own hotels for trying to declare his candidacy. Now? He’s the fucking Republican president, a Republican president who mocks (and you can look it up—oh, and fuck you if you defend it, you chicken shits) people with disabilities, women, other races, anyone who doesn’t agree with him, reporters—basically everybody. There’s a reason for that: he’s a bullying cunt. I know it feels like the Left are doing most of the bullying lately, but that’s because an ass hat who is completely unqualified for the highest office in our country is slowly but surely wiping his ass with the integrity of the post. Oh, he’s also a hypocritical coward as well. Notice his rallies get farther and farther south.
He talks a great fucking game, and yet how many engagements has he canceled because he couldn’t handle the protests? Hmm? At least two? Yeah, you’re pretty tough, Trump. It’s the same reason he doesn’t answer questions. Maybe if he talked and really listened more while accusing less, people wouldn’t be taking over his rallies to protest him. Maybe his Republican senators and members of the House of Representatives wouldn’t be hounded at town hall meetings and political roundtables. Maybe his team would have a half-assed plan instead of a bunch of faulty doctrine triggered by those fucking hate groups he’s trying so hard to impress. There’s that old saying that “sometimes all you need is hope.” His supporters are those people, for whatever reason. They hang on his words like rope swings in summer. They believe him like a reference book. They put their faith in him because what else do they have? They are running on outdated software that only made sense with a few old servers. When the time came for the upgrades, no one could handle the downloads—it wasn’t compatible with their systems anymore. So now they’ve created a savior out of a demagogue in expensive, ill-fitting suits and a horrid comb-over. They think he’s doing more than he actually is, while he’s putting a hurt on the money drain—way more than the nice black gentleman who preceded him. What do you think is going to happen when the bottom falls out of their c
ustom-made fantasy?
I once wrote that the American Dream—not Dusty Rhodes but the ethereal equivalent—is the mindset that built the foundation for our country and created a myth for the rest of the world. I described it as an opportunity, nothing more, and people have since bastardized it to mean “get rich quick” or “use the system to fuck others over for your own gains.” That’s not what the American Dream was meant to be. It was intended to be the chance to pick up the pieces of your life and rebuild it in a place where safety is granted under the ceiling of freedom and sanity. So generations of the poor, the tired, and the huddled masses came to our shores to find sanctuary and peace while raising a family of next-gen Americans. This was another part of the blue-collar population, the ones who rolled up sleeves and got down in the dirt to make sure the legs were sturdy and the buildings were “purdy.” Those of the paler complexions have chosen to be slightly myopic when it comes to who they let in the blue-collar class reunion, but it would be a fucking travesty of justice to omit those from foreign lands who came, earned their citizenship, and stayed to help make this country stronger.
