America 51

by Corey Taylor

  In the last twenty years we’ve decided that our main priority is to clear all the shit from the sandbox, so to speak, so most of our foreign conflicts have taken place in the oldest parts of civilization on Planet Earth. I’d acquiesce to the fact that it’s important for us to try to stop ISIS from not only killing thousands of people but also halt their unbelievable destruction of some of the holiest and most ancient structures, monuments, and buildings history has ever seen. The obscenity of their disdain for everything around them is truly disgusting. However—and you might not like this—if we hadn’t been fucking around in that region in the first place, we wouldn’t fucking be in this situation. We were working with the Taliban—YES, THE FUCKING TALIBAN—in the eighties when we were trying to help them repel the Russians from Afghanistan and other areas. Plus, while working with Saddam Hussein—YES, SADDAM FUCKING HUSSEIN—to control some of the more violent and religious movements, we helped him secure his secular government and, thereby, his stranglehold on Iraq. Then we got wrapped up in the region, the Taliban became our enemy, we attacked Hussein because “oil,” and all of a sudden the United States was officially the Big, Bad Oppressor all over Africa, not just to Khomeini and Gaddafi but to every tribal or government leader around. Yay! We did it!

  I don’t want people to think I’m insinuating that we deserved the terrorist attacks that have happened to us. I also don’t want to make it sound like there weren’t threats that needed to be dealt with; some of those extremists, bin Laden included, would have done terrible things to other places even if they hadn’t come after us. However, my point is simple: there were other ways for us to help those people, but maybe certain heads of our government balanced the effects of meddling in the region with the benefits and access to all the petroleum, and they threw almost all caution to the wind. So you’d think that some political bites to the national ass would get us to realign our priorities and straighten out the bottom line. Yeah, not really: we’re just casting about looking for other places to set up our fucking lethal erector sets. Hell, Trump’s even indicated that he will ostracize or reward those countries that won’t play ball with him and “The Trump Brand”: like those hotels, golf courses, bacon bowls (maybe not), piano ties (also can’t back that up), and whatever the fuck Ivanka shills for Macy’s, or Target, or wherever the fuck she shills whatever the fuck she shills. Get the picture? Good, at least someone does. I’m totally lost…

  An interesting side effect of this world-trampling warmongering is the paranoia that happens stateside. All through the Cheeto’s campaign he kept assuring Americans that we were in danger from international terrorists and illegal immigrant criminals. While the former has its truth in smaller doses, neither of them are nearly the threat he would lead us to fucking believe. In fact, since 9/11 more people in this country have been killed by domestic Caucasian terrorists than by international threats—a statistic that glares in the face of everything these hateful cunts want to push on us. But to them, a fucking immigration ban (read: “anyone not really white” ban) makes total sense when they’re slinging around this shitty rhetoric. Fear is the stick shift on the Ferrari of control: the higher the gear, the higher the revs and the bigger the boost out of the gate. So of course the Trump administration is going to use “fake news” sites like Breitbart to ramp up and justify policies that make Americans feel safe. But what’s going to happen when other countries start banning Americans from coming into their worlds with our hateful entitlement? They don’t have to let us in either. We just assume, because we’re the great white global sheriffs, that other countries are happy to see us and welcome us in with open arms. My experience is quite the opposite: lots of times our very presence in another country or our association with their government makes them a target. So why the hell would anyone want to hang out with or invite over the kid in school who always makes a scene and breaks shit at the party? We’re America; we’re fucking assholes. If I were the head of a foreign government, I’d probably keep my fucking distance. Thus, I think sooner rather than later, while this shithead administration is busy banning other countries (read: colors) from coming into our own, more and more countries are going to do the same thing to us. The shitty part is that we’ll deserve it.

  If you don’t believe me, let me tell you the old tale of the American Who Had Too Many Irish Car Bombs.

  The year was 2001. The place was Paris, France. Slipknot had just played an incredibly successful concert at the Zenith. Beforehand we’d made our by-now traditional sojourn to “see Jim,” visiting Morrison’s grave at Père Lachaise and leaving him an all-access pass. After the show we didn’t have to go anywhere very quickly, so a decision had to be made: go on to the next city (in Germany, I believe) or stay in Paris and go absolutely fucking bonkers running around the Party Vous Francais. Of course we opted for the latter choice, and we all scattered like spores on the cross breezes, looking for the darkest kinds of trouble imaginable. This dispersal led to revelations about glitter discos, burning bathrooms, and finding a tall gentleman passed out standing up in an elevator. But for me, I slid sideways through the din and went in search of my own insane form of refreshment. Our tour bus was parked on a two-lane one-way near a park boxed in by concrete and traffic on all sides, but cosmopolitan company was just around the corner, so I split from the skids and just kept turning corners until I found where I was supposed to be. It was a bit chilly, but I was already fairly tipsy at that point—plus, I was fat, hairy, and covered in layers. With this in mind, I unleashed myself on an unsuspecting French public.

  About two hours later I woke up. It took me a second to realize where the hell I was. I had the vaguest of recollections about wandering into an Irish pub—in France, I know—and propping myself up at the bar. As this was occurring to me, I noticed the mess around my feet and the look of horror in the sparse number of patrons sitting ALL THE WAY ON THE OTHER SIDE of the pub. The barkeep had a towel over his arm and a scowl on his face. I was reaching the conclusion that I wasn’t welcome there. I would have left right away, but I also kind of wanted to know what I’d done. Yeah, for some reason this FUBAR sense of attrition came over me, and I suddenly wanted to apologize for whatever it was that I’d done. I tried to stand up and lean over the bar to speak to the bartender, who was still grimacing at me, but my legs had suddenly turned into a pair of gelatinous stumps, like two pillowcases filled with pudding instead of the foundation for my shitty body. I clutched at the wood of the bar to steady myself, and for a split second I saw the slightest smirk come across the bartender’s face, and he relaxed for a minute. When he relaxed the rest of the bar did as well. That allowed me to get my collective smack together.

  Once I knew he would listen to me, I barely mumbled, “I’m so sorry if I’ve offended anyone here tonight.” It was the worst slurred speech ever. But apparently the bartender was fluent in dickish drunk, because he simply shook his head and waved his hand as if to say, “C’est la vie.” Satisfied, I made as if to leave. But he called me back: “Monsieur, excuse me.” He came around the bar to stand next to me. “I understand you’re… sick,” he made a vomiting face, and I gave him a laugh in turn. Then he got serious. “But I’m afraid you need to settle your bill before you go home.” I was quite apologetic and asked what the tab was. He smiled and said, “three hundred francs.” It didn’t quite click with me for a second, then it hit me. Three hundred fucking francs?! That was about the same total in American dollars at the time. How the fuck did I spend basically three hundred bucks by myself? I came to find out that I drank eight Irish car bombs, which is a shot of Jameson mixed with Bailey’s, then dropped into a pint of Guinness, depth-charge style, and chugged as fast as you possibly can before the Bailey’s curdles. I know what you’re thinking, and yes, it is fucking delicious. Now eight car bombs don’t come to three hundred bucks. But apparently I was spitting beer and whiskey at the people around me as well, so every time I’d order a drink, the barkeep ordered one for the people in the bar as well—on m
e. I opened my mouth to say something about that being some prime-time bullshit, and then suddenly I just nodded. I got it—I’d been a complete cunt. I wasn’t nearly as bad as Dick was in Japan, but I was pretty bad, and I deserved it. So I ran my credit card and split.

  Now imagine every American tourist doing that every night but not eating the crow when they get the payback. Imagine having to deal with that on every level, all the fucking time because people from all over the world come to your country as tourists but decide to not behave as if they’re in their own country. Now imagine those tourists are military. Now imagine that they don’t leave, ever. Sometimes an absurd idea like the one I just presented doesn’t seem too crazy when you think about the fact that it does happen a little too often. Don’t believe me? Ask Iraq. We overstay our welcome all the time, like I did in the bar. I’m sure that dude couldn’t wait to get rid of me, even after making sure I paid my bill. To wrap that story up, after I left the bar I eventually succumbed to the drunken munchies and found a storefront restaurant selling chili dogs stuffed with French fries—which is a truly nutritious and balanced meal to have at 3:30 in the fucking morning. I went back to the bus, laid down in the back lounge, and woke up puking. It was everywhere. It took me forever to clean up on my own, and the smell never really went away. Boom went the dynamite, all over Uncle Fuckmouth’s nice tour bus. If only our national karma could suffer through some of that so we’d learn our lessons.

  Look, I know most Americans don’t want the United States nosing around in other countries’ affairs, instead yearning for a time when we look more to our own bullshit than raking up stink in barns that don’t belong to us. No, I didn’t hear that anywhere; I came up with that saying on my own. I feel like it’s pretty fitting: we do need to stop fucking around in other people’s yards and pay a little more attention to what’s up in our own house. The problem with that is we the people have very little to do with when, how, and why that happens in the first place. Between the lobbyists and the politicians who ultimately get us into this shit, no one really asks us what we think. They give us just enough info to get our blood up by showing us front-loaded news stories to control our bias, then they slip into conflicts around the world based on whatever their interests are at the time. We as Americans, if hard pressed, are largely in favor of letting the world get on with its own shit while we do our own thing. There’s nothing wrong with that, by the way. It’s actually healthier for the world when other countries figure out their own troubles. If we’re solicited, I think it’s cool if we, as a collective, help as a part of NATO. But unfortunately, our global reputation precedes us now. We can make or break a second chance for a third-world country. We can take or leave the best shot for a better future in the hands of people not really dedicated to something as positive as bolstering a foreign market or helping with things such as water supplies or medical facilities. Yes, there are independent organizations that handle that, but depending on the relations our government has with certain countries can also mean putting your life at risk for tribal violence or kidnapping. That’s not me being a paranoid ass; that shit happens, and it shouldn’t happen to good people who give up their lives to help others.

  You all know I’m a first-class comic-book geek. I grew up reading the exploits of everyone from Spider-Man to Batman. I’ve always loved those characters, who they were, and what they stood for. But I’ll tell you: a character I forgot I loved just as much as Spidey was Captain America. In fact, one of my favorite comics is a Spider-Man/Captain America crossover. I love Cap because he is the embodiment of what America was supposed to stand for: what is right and just, color-blind to race, and empathy and justice for all. Captain America was more than the spirit of the USA; he was a good man, one to aspire to being. To me, when I was growing up he was my impression of what America actually was. Maybe he’s the whole reason I still have a pinch of patriotism in my blood. The thing I love most about the Cap in the comics is that, like me and a lot of Americans, he had that “crisis of faith” where he didn’t recognize himself in the America he was looking at. I know some cynics have a lot of issues with the American Superhero being a blonde, blue-eyed man, but even Cap would tell you it’s not about the look that’s meant to be American—it’s about who you are. There have been several attempts to update the character and even changing Steve Rogers himself, and every time I feel like they have failed because they forget what the character is supposed to be. Captain America is about the ideal, not the reality. That character is about the hope, not the hate. He’s about the promise, no matter how many times the real world has allowed us all to break it. There are times when I curse Stan Lee and Jack Kirby for giving us a character like Captain America; however, I’m secretly always happy they did. It’s exactly this ideal that some of us look up to, to try to emulate, and to make us feel like we’re not crazy for wanting to be more at peace than at war. There’s nothing wrong with looking up to a fictional character’s values. Nine times out of ten they are more real and sincere than most of these “family men and women” Republicans and Democrats, politicians who later get caught with hookers and blow while they spent most of their political careers gutting programs for families and taxing the shit out of working people. I’d rather have the beliefs of a comic book character than the values of a fucking lying thief.

  To sum up this chapter is a tough one. There are some people like myself who feel that in order to improve our place in the world at large, we must slowly extricate ourselves from other countries’ affairs in a manner that doesn’t leave them in chaos. But there are others who believe we need to keep pushing into foreign territory, whether under the guise of “preserving international democracy” or “keeping the fascists and commies at bay with our very presence in an area.” The dynamics don’t really make sense when you figure that our global fingerprints are on a lot of shitty backfires and depressions. We label ourselves liberators, but in a lot of ways we only like the best bits of the action movies, so that’s all we do: come in, start some shit, “free the people,” and then split before the credits, unwilling to do the heavy labor because Americans only want stories about victories, not budgets and homework. To a lot of people the important part was the war or the fighting. That’s not true: indigenous peoples always fight harder than liberators because there’s more at fucking stake for them. They will gladly fight for themselves when the time comes. What they really need from us is the stability that comes with being a superpower (by the way, we gave ourselves that name, nobody else did). We should be there to help pick up the pieces, not blowing the shit out of everything in the first damn place. There’s more good and a lot more karma in helping someone to their feet instead of pushing them down. The world has enough aggressors; what it truly needs are teachers, doctors, healers, and help.

  I’ve had a philosophy in my life that has kept me on the straight and narrow for the last few years. Sure, it took me a few years and a whole lot of egotistical bullshit to figure it out, but once I did, I never forgot it: It only takes a few extra seconds to be nice to someone as opposed to being a screaming cock right out of the gate. You’re not losing anything, you’ve given up nothing but a handful of important seconds and in the right situation, and you’re also making someone’ life by being nice. That person will spread that energy as long as it lasts, and the people they spread it to do the same, and so on and so forth, until your catalyst of goodness has tapped the pressure valves on real life and given people a temporary respite from the permanent pain in the ass that can be Life In Progress. To me there’s no better reason to be that way than that right there. Some people get up in the morning, their experience is shit wall-to-wall, and then they go to bed with the taste of turds on their breath, no matter how many times they brush their teeth. The absolute bastard of it all is that they’ll have to run that shit-stained gamut again when they wake up in the morning. So why not give them a break or make their day with some kindness, some coolness, a few extra seconds for a photo and some convers
ation? It’s a good way to be—it doesn’t always pay off, but it’s not always about us, is it? Either way, the motivation is coming from a good place, and the afterglow can shine on crazy diamonds for a very long time if you do it right.

  I feel like if America had that same mindset, we wouldn’t be the Big, Bad Global Bully to a lot of nations. No nation is perfect, of course, but when you’re the country who purports to have the most freedom and the most happiness, then you go setting fires and kicking over cans in other people’s countries, that’s what we call in the Taylor household a “dick move, Banner.” There are a lot of nations who have us completely dialed and never ask us for a fucking thing because they know the tit-for-tat comes with a heavy bill, plus gratuity, plus interest, plus, plus, plus. We’re the savages, the Vikings, the Huns, and the hoard on its way to Ford Theater. We are not so much the heroes of every story, but we’re not the villain in each story either. It’s complicated to say the least. It’s like tiptoeing through minefields where even if you step on a landmine, they don’t all kill you; some just pelt you with candy. But you don’t know that, and you genuinely don’t know which one is which. So proceed with caution, and glory comes with a nice “hallelujah” when you don’t blow the shit out of yourself. Internationally, we’re basically a Benny Hill skit, for fuck’s sake. We’re in a red-white-and-blue bikini, chasing all the other girls around because when we go down, we’re taking everyone with us.