You're Making Me Hate You

by Corey Taylor

  The way we approach relationships with anything these days is to overdo it. No one knows how to find the right balance and go with the flow. Everyone has to get exactly what they want exactly when they need it from exactly the right person or food or thing or fucking whatever. People are obsessed with fulfilling their needs before anything else in life. The selfishness makes for a million “butts and farts” running around, convinced they’ll never be happy unless they get precisely what they want. I don’t know whether it’s what personal freedom persuades us to think we need or it’s just because, with so many things around us so readily available, like information and technology, we have developed an addiction to instant gratification. Either way, we’re all a bunch of spoiled brats wandering this galactic pebble, yelling and arguing when we don’t get what we want.

  Life’s not the Internet, fuckholes.

  Life doesn’t sway or give when you try to force it to give you what you crave, whether it’s a lover or a liver transplant. Because of life, you learn to roll with the punches, even if you have to take a few head shots before you find out the hard way. Satisfaction only breeds selfishness: it’s not a bad thing per se, but depending on what you’re pursuing, it can be anything from the death of desire to the destroyer of the ability to dream, if I can paraphrase slightly. When you always get what you want, you build up a tolerance—in the sense of an illness—against appreciation. More importantly, you become intolerant to anything, perceived or real, that feels like a setback or a loss. This is how we are meant to develop as people and expand on our inner compassion and empathy. When we lose that, forget about relationships; we are fucked as a species. We will be headed for the day when we’re just finely dressed monkeys assaulting each other with shit (literal shit) filled with gravel and cherry pits.

  Don’t get mad at me: you’re the ones who look like brown stains in the world’s underwear. I’m just pointing it out. You know why people don’t get married and stay together anymore? It’s because they think their momentary lust is love, and when that lust burns itself dry, they want out to find someone else. You know why so many people are fucking obese these days—and I don’t mean by those bullshit universal standards you get when you go to the doctor; I mean based on the eye test. It’s because no one can stand the thought of not being able to eat anything and everything as much as possible all the fucking time. Humanity has run out of willpower. Humanity has run out of patience. It has turned into Gollum, stroking his Precious in the caverns and eating what he kills. Our backs have arched and our hearts have gone black. We want everything and we want it now. Never mind that we don’t know what real love is: we want love now. Never mind that we can’t handle food or drugs or booze or sex or anything in moderation. We want it all now. Never mind that we don’t know how to make ourselves truly happy because the only way we know how to be happy is to get what we want now.

  Give it to us now.

  We fucking want it now.

  You want the truth?

  “Yes, we want the truth now.”

  You all fucking suck at life.

  NOW …

  Deal with it or change.

  CHAPTER 8

  CHILDREN OF CLODS

  I WAS STANDING in line at the airport in Columbus, Ohio, wondering what in bloody fucking hell was taking so goddamn long, when the thought occurred to me that someone’s going to run that kid over and I’m going to laugh.

  Let me explain.

  The Boss (aka the wife) and I had flown into Ohio so I could get my ass handed to me: it was, of course, the occasion of the Third Annual Rock ’n’ Roll Roast, being held on Rock on the Range weekend, and the honoree—I say that with only a hint of sarcasm—was yours truly: me. Ostensibly it would be painless in a very painful way, and that was indeed the case. However, the event was sold out, we were able to raise some great money for a foundation called MusiCares (which helps addicts in the music industry get treatment and so much more), and everyone had a really good time. Well, when I say “everyone,” I actually mean anyone who didn’t get their feelings hurt. Sebastian Bach did throw a full Starbucks coffee at Don Jamieson while the comic was still at the podium, but other than that very isolated incident, it was a great success. My friend Clown drank his own pee and threatened everyone with a giant butcher knife—all in all, it was an atypical Thursday.

  After the aforementioned festivities, The Boss and I woke up ready to head back home the following day. We packed up, grabbed lunch, and headed to the Port Columbus International Airport with time to spare. This is where we pick up the action because even though she and I are quite efficient when it comes to travel of any kind, sometimes the cards are just stacked against us. We’d checked in quite quickly, but then we found ourselves languishing in a line so unnecessarily slow it was like trying to drink tree sap with a hundred-foot paper straw. This is how slow it was: we were second in line and stood there for forty minutes. There was a man traveling alone in front of us and a family of three at the counter. Forty minutes. That’s no exaggeration. It was the “bag drop” line—we didn’t even need to get our tickets. There was no one behind us for twenty-five of those minutes. Even by a turtle’s standards, that is extraordinarily slow.

  One of the reasons this line was abysmally slothful was because of the family who was “being helped” at the counter. The family consisted of a man, a woman, and their son, whom I assume was two years old. Between them they had eight fucking pieces of luggage. The lady behind the counter was doing her best to help them with a smile, but I watched them twice have to repack their stupid suitcases to save money on weight distribution. Everyone involved seemed clueless, including the man who was in front of us in line; he missed two separate opportunities to get helped by someone at a different position because he wasn’t paying attention. It was a torturous blend of waiting, frowning, and gritting my teeth. Most days I have the patience of a man waiting for sainthood. That particular Friday was not going to help my clean-play record.

  While I waited, I began to pay complete attention to the two-year-old boy screaming “DA!” every two seconds. He was latched into a stroller from the 1980s, the kind that looks like an elderly aunt uses it to bring home groceries on Sunday afternoon. This kid was not exactly stoked about being strapped to this contraption, so he was flailing about and playing that “fun” game in which he drops whatever it is he’s holding, waits for mom or dad to pick it up and give it back to him, and then immediately drops it again, a little farther away. The best part of that game is when mom or dad doesn’t want to play anymore, so they hold onto the item. This produces a shriek from the little tyrant that is held for an inordinate amount of time until one of the parents breaks down and gives the item back in a fit of exasperation … and the cycle begins all over again. This went on for a while before the father, a man in his pajamas trying to appear authoritative, made a split-second decision.

  He let the kid out of his stroller.

  This was when that thought at the top of the chapter popped into my head like a rabid bastard cruising accident sites. For ten minutes I watched this kid wander off on his own—A TWO-YEAR-OLD BOY WHO COULD BARELY WALK—screaming “DA!” for everyone and their mom to hear. He would wander off into “traffic”—the constant stream of weary travelers running at light speed. Every time he got farther and farther away, and the father would have to stop what he was doing at the counter and go get him, bring him back, and set him down … only to have him wander off again. There were hundreds of people walking by, all at a healthy clip because—shock and horror!—they were in an airport in a hurry! After the fortieth time I saw this kid nearly get run down by air travelers, I said out loud, “Someone’s going to run that kid over and I’m going to laugh.” My wife gave me a look of surprise for a second, then thought about the situation, and reluctantly agreed. I turned around at one point and the kid was just gone. Dad ran away from the counter in the direction of his last known whereabouts, and while his back was turned, the kid came stumbling out of
the women’s restroom, loudly calling that same battle cry.

  At some point you kind of have to ask yourself: How the hell do I get outsmarted and outmaneuvered by a kid who’s only been alive for two years? Then again, this is the modern malady—a horrid example of how we, the adults, are letting down them, the young, in a feeble attempt to avoid hurting children’s feelings. If the parents aren’t doing that, they’re trying to fit in with their kids and their friends. If they’re not doing that, they reside in the area of ignoring everything about the children unless they can benefit the parents’ meaningless existence in some way, usually when other dickheads like themselves are paying attention. All of these reasons and more are why, after careful examination and due process, I have crunched some numbers and arrived at the following conclusion:

  The modern parent is a fucking asshole.

  I mean that sincerely. I mean that as surely as when I say “There is no god” or “I hope I never hear Avril Lavigne’s voice ever again.” The modern parent is a dick bag who has been shell-shocked by the media and other fuck-face caregivers. On the one hand, some have been pushed into thinking that if they don’t do everything with their kids, they’re neglectful bastards. So these people do everything with them. It’s one thing to do some stuff with your kids, like run errands or fit in some quality hang time. However, some of the shit they get up to is out and out obsessive, compulsive, and borderline mother-fucking abusive.

  On the other hand, if they’re not smothering, they’re not smothering—by which I mean they’re not doing anything at all. They treat their children like window dressing, something to fluff up when company comes over or when friends ask after them. They pay just enough attention to answer a barrage of questions if the authorities get involved. Other than that, they can’t be bothered. They barely know the kid’s middle name, and they are the ones who came up with it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve watched a lonely kid just walk around a park while their mom—and it’s usually the mom, blowing up that particular image—sits on her ass and texts or tweets or fucking cruises Facebook for someone to cheat with. It’s pathetic. So I can’t tell the lesser of the two evils: the ones who do fuck all or the ones who fucking do it all. Either way your kids get the shit end of the dipstick, and that might just come back on you a thousandfold.

  If I had a nickel for every time I’ve seen a parent do something fucking stupid that involves their kid or multiple kids, I wouldn’t need to write these books. Hell, I could even retire from my other job as a singer for those bands I’m in and live comfortably for the rest of my life. I mean, holy cheddar tits … leashes? You’re walking your kids on leashes? Do you keep their fucking water bowls clean too? Did you buy them a bed, or do they sleep on a shitty blanket? Why not go all the way—when they’re old enough, have them spayed! I’m sure they won’t mind, and at least you’ll know definitively that teenage pregnancy won’t be an issue. If you’re going to treat your kid like a fucking pet, then we’re all going to judge you. You knew it when you bought that sorry excuse for a parenting tool in the collars section at Babies ‘R’ Us; now sit in it and shut up.

  I don’t know what’s worse, honestly—the leash or the ways that parents try to integrate their children into their “exercise program” without looking like a tool. I have never seen one kid who was stoked to be strapped into a “sport stroller” and shoved down the street because mommy’s got a fat ass and needs to burn it off. Another example is when daddy puts all those protective pads on the four-year-old and drags him or her along for aggressive rollerblading—all while not wearing a shirt. Mind you, I don’t have any problem with people getting in shape; I work out myself as much as possible. God forbid you just have someone watch your kid for a second. But you just got to make sure everyone knows you’re a good parent: “She hasn’t left my side! See? I’m paying attention! Are you kidding, she loves the jostling and the motion sickness!” Lady, you’re a prick. Kids get sick enough as it is without giving them a new way to do so.

  That brings me to my next scathing accusation—and none of you are going to like it. Being a father myself, you need to understand the earnestness with which I hurl at you the following utterance: your fucking kids suck … and it’s all your fault, parents.

  The time has come to bear down and chomp on the truth. Certain lines should never be crossed. It’s like the bringer of the brood cannot stand that there’s a younger, faster version ready for the big time. Either we’re treating our fucking kids like accessories for recreation and exercise or we’re trying to act like we’re their age, putting up a front to compete for attention. Yay, Mom. I’m sure your daughter loves that you want people to think you’re sisters, because nothing makes a teenager or a twenty-something feel better about herself than being compared to a woman in her fifties. It’s like you’re trying to raise a hooker with issues. Oh, and one more thing: stop trying to bang your daughter’s boyfriends. That’s just grossly inappropriate.

  BOOM! Just like that, I made it awkward, so we’ll get away from that … for now.

  You know who I feel sorry for? Those kids in Baby Bjorns, swinging around with the worst look of baby bum-out known to mankind. I’ve seen fathers covered in those things: two rigs, two kids, and fistfuls of dry cereal, shoving them into empty mouths as they make their way down the streets of a city teeming with filth and fodder. He’s feeding one like the clip of a machine gun and the other he’s just reaching blindly over one shoulder, desperately trying to find the kid’s mouth while not running into shit like telephone poles, mailboxes, and other human beings. The whole time he’s jogging. Kids jutting from his back and gut, Cheerios falling through hapless fingers—and he’s jogging. That’s the reason he’s out and about: he’s not taking the kids for a stroll, and he’s not bringing them with him while he runs to the store; he’s exercising so the soccer moms of the world look at him and think, “Look at that healthy hunk of extramarital possibility.” In reality people regard him as the idiot in the Under Armour who’s on the verge of abusing his kids. Sorry, Jim Fix Jr.—nobody likes a moron who multitasks with his brood.

  Having kids does some crazy shit to your psyche, your identity, and your sense of satisfaction. The thing I learned when I had my kids is that for the rest of my life it’s not all about me anymore. You get moments, of course. Everybody needs to unplug from the parental mainframe and get a little sugar somewhere else occasionally. There’s nothing wrong with that, and you shouldn’t be ashamed. However, this is an age of extremes; the common human has no idea what balance is all about and therefore does nothing in moderation. So the usual shit becomes unusually ridiculous: you get the absolute absence or the complete control, meaning you’re either all over your kids or you have no clue where they are and you don’t care. No wonder this generation is fucking angry—I don’t blame them. I would be too if their choices were “shit” and “shit with a hair in it.” “Hey, kids! It’s 10 p.m. … do you know where your parents are?”

  Then there are the new-wave parents—the hep cats with their unfounded theories—who believe it’s okay to let the kids raise themselves as a way to hasten their individuality. These hippies think that by allowing a toddler to basically fend for his or her self, the kid is going to get it together faster than the average Disney kid. On the one hand, it makes a little sense and I’ve seen evidence that it can make a difference with that approach—we have friends with a young boy who is further ahead of the curve than most teenagers I know. But you have to be specially equipped to do this; in other words, you yourselves have to know what the fuck you’re doing. You can’t be fuck-ups and use this “Sedona Method” as an excuse to just not put the work in. Trust me: there will be repercussions.

  There is a couple I am very close to who have a wolverine for a child. We’ll call him Seamus to protect him from future admonishment. I don’t know whether it’s because this couple is just not on the ball themselves or because putting in the work is too much of a hassle, but after four years as “par
ents,” they have found themselves raising a tiny barracuda. When you go to their house, you immediately understand that a maniac runs the place. There is food on the floor and the furniture. Mad scrawlings appear on the walls like pictographs from a race that died out aeons ago. Broken shit is everywhere. Then you hear the roar in the distance and the sound of little malicious feet running in your direction. This is when, if you’re in the know, you immediately protect your nuts. Seamus is coming, and whether he likes you, hates you, or has never met you before, he is going to run head first into your crotch or swing a baseball bat at your balls.

  This kid makes a prison riot at Arkham look like a school field trip. He walks up and tries to take food off your plate. He gets his hands on your possessions like your phone, and if he can’t play with it, he’ll try to break it. He screams until you let him get his way. He will hit you until you let him get his way. This kid is either going to become the school bully or is going to get his ass handed to him on a regular basis, and I’m here to fucking tell you that after a point, it’s not his fault—it’s his parents’ fault. They didn’t teach him shit about boundaries, self-soothing, or honest patience. They did none of that shit, and now they are suffering for it. The child runs that house like Stalin in the fifties: long hours, short tempers, and devoid of pity. Then they try to bitch to me about what a hard job it is being a parent. As a friend, I tell them straight up, “It’s your fault, you dumb ass! You did this! You are the parent. If you don’t at least lay down the law, how is this child supposed to know any better? You don’t teach him shit—how is he supposed to know shit?”

  To be fair, they haven’t asked me over in a long time.

  But then again, why the hell would I go over there? Why, so I can walk in the door and constantly be on my guard against a kid who thinks he’s a tiny ball-busting battering ram? Fuck all that shit, and I wouldn’t even think about taking my kids over there because what if that shit’s contagious? Maybe it’s 28 Days Later and it’s a juvenile equivalent to the Rage Virus? I can hear your heads shaking in anger, and I will at least acknowledge the ridiculousness of that thought. But I’m a father, and I ain’t taking any fucking chances. That shit could be like lice or cooties: once it’s in your skin, no amount of washing will kill the talk at the jungle gyms. Horrid business, that: just imagine the conversations over milk at lunch. “I heard Judy got the ragers, poor girl. She was so young …” It could happen. Fuck YOU, IT COULD HAPPEN.