You're Making Me Hate You

by Corey Taylor

  I have a terrible habit that I’ll fill you in on about me: I get so frustrated with Griffin’s friends that, whether their parents are around or not, I go out of my way to scare the fuck out of them so they never misbehave around me again, sometimes leading them to never want to come back to our house any time in the future. Thankfully they still like hanging out with Griff because he’s such a rad kid, so they invite him over for sleepovers and birthday parties. But they all hesitate the second they step foot in Casa de Taylor. Rightfully so too—not that I can’t be a fun dad, mind you. I always enjoy hanging out with the boys, and we’ll do shit like play catch in the backyard or I’ll take everybody to the movies. But they also know they don’t get away with the same shit in my house. Plus, if I don’t catch it, Stephanie does, and she makes me look like a Salvation Army Santa Claus. Her other nickname is The Hulk: I don’t really think I need to say any more. You get the picture.

  Griffin has two specific friends whom, when I see them or they come to our house, I immediately have to remind myself not to go off on them because they’re kids and they don’t know any better. One is the boy called “Milt,” whom I mentioned in the first chapter. Milt is a lot like Griff—small for his age but with a ton of energy and imagination. Those boys are thick as thieves. But I don’t think Griff picks up on some of the stuff this kid Milt does. If he did, I don’t think they’d be friends. Let me tell you about the first time Milt stayed overnight at our house. Steph was out of town, and I had some friends staying with us, so the house was full. I went to pick Griff up from school, and he came bounding out with Milt. They charged up to me and said, “Milt’s spending the night because his parents said it was okay.” Now, the first thing wrong with this is that neither of the two asked me whether it was okay, and it became clear that Milt had told his family he was going to Griff’s for the night. I scolded the two of them, saying it’s not a plan until you talk to me about it. I let it slide; Griff doesn’t get to have a lot of friends over—most of his friends’ parents are scared of me. We all jumped into the Range Rover and headed home.

  Then Milt’s phone rang.

  First of all, let’s talk about that. Why would a preteen need a smartphone? Why would you let that kid take it to school? If you’re the one who picks him up, there’s no need for that, and any calls they need to make at school should come from the school’s phone. I see more and more kids with these damn things. I’m sure some of them are warranted but not all of them. That shit just drives me fucking banana shits. Anyway, Milt’s phone rang. This is where the fun begins.

  Apparently he had not discussed this with the people picking him up from school, and I’d basically driven off with a child who was not my own. Thoughts of kidnapping charges flew through my head as I asked Milt, “Dude, did you even ask? Or did you just think you could call and everything would be all right?” It turned out he’d spoken to one parent, who then went to work without telling anyone else in the extended family, people who were, at that moment, combing the school grounds for this kid. I got on the phone and apologized to his aunt and asked whether she’d like me to bring him back. After she replied that as long as he had permission from his parents, it was okay, I gave Milt’s phone back to him and we went home.

  Once we arrived back at the house I announced we’d be having tacos that night, much to the delight of Griff—not only would we be having tacos, we’d be having Taco Bell, and Griff’s favorites: those Doritos taco things. I don’t get it, but okay—he likes them, so to each his own. Griff let out a shout of “Yes!” Milt paused, wrinkled his nose, and, like an old man at a restaurant, sighed and said, “Yeah … tacos aren’t really my thing.” I looked at this kid like he was a sasquatch—what kid doesn’t like fucking tacos? But I swallowed whatever angry retort I had on deck and replied with, “Well, Milt, tacos are what we’re having, and tacos are what you’re going to get.” He smirked at me and walked away.

  Do you know what that little motherfucker did next?

  Milt went outside, called his grandmother, and made her bring him Long John Silver’s. Read that sentence again because we’re going to talk about all the things that are wrong about it. This kid went away from earshot, phoned his grandmother who was at work, and made her go to Long John Silver’s so he could eat what he wanted. Milt lives on the other side of town, and his grandmother, I later learned, works even farther away than that. So Milt, like it was the most natural thing in the world, called his grandmother to complain that he didn’t want tacos; he wanted popcorn shrimp. He wanted what he wanted. Now, mind you, I understand there is very little nutritional difference between Long John Silver’s and Taco Bell. I was fully prepared to buy fast food for my son; I’m not judging on the fast food front. I am, however, judging all over the fucking place on the fact that this kid made one phone call to a woman who was busy at work to complain that he wasn’t going to get his way, and instead of that woman telling her grandson to shut up and buck up, she left work, went to a drive-thru, picked it up, and brought it to him. Now look at the situation: Whose fault is it? Is it Milt’s? That little shit pissed me off so bad with that move that I haven’t let Griff invite him back over. I know: I’m older and I know better, but I’m also just a big enough asshole to hold a grudge against a little dick nose who hasn’t even hit puberty yet.

  Or is it his grandmother’s fault? I’ve been to their house—not inside but to drop him off—and I know he’s not an only child. I know he’s probably getting just enough attention. So why in this entire sweet world would you immediately give in to a summons like that? What part of you thinks that’s an okay thing to do? Why in the fuck would that kid think it’s okay to do something like that unless … he’s done it before? If he thinks that’s acceptable and not a complete fucking waste of everybody’s time, how do you think he got there? I’ll tell you exactly how he got there: because he’s a fucking brat, spelled “B-R-A-Tea Bags.” That little shit is going to grow up with such a sense of entitlement that it’s going to collapse back on his parents, who I am sure are just working hard to take care of a fairly decent-sized family. But someday Milt’s going to go rogue on them—I’ve seen it before. Because of the way they’ve raised him, he’s not going to be ready for the punch in the nuts that life in general has to offer him. He’s going to get broken down: on the playground, between classes in high school, at job interviews, and so forth. Milt might not make it … all because his parents were too scared of disappointing him to tell him NO.

  “No” is a good fucking thing to have in your parental golf bag. I tell Griff No all the time. Sometimes I’m a pushover and I let him do his thing, but I also know when is the right time and when it’s time to shut it down for the night. You have to have that valve in the machine because if you don’t, you end up looking like a complete fuckface—making up an excuse at work so you can take your shitty grandkid some popcorn shrimp, all because he’s too fucking cool for tacos. Sorry—I’m still raw about that. I wished to God I could say I’ve learned to like Milt a little more, but I really don’t. In fact, I’ve said some shit to him that my friends, all of which were standing right there, had to leave the room because they couldn’t believe I just said that shit to a child. Nothing bad—get that out of your heads. Just some subtle shit that he might think about later and go, “Wow, Mr. Taylor was a dick …” Then again, maybe he’ll be smart enough to go, “Wow, Mr. Taylor was right—I was a dick …”

  Only time will tell, as the Nelson brothers sang long ago …

  The second of Griff’s friends is a little more complex to talk about. Instead of too much attention from his parents, he doesn’t really get any, mainly because his parents are so wrapped up in their own lives and mutual drama that they don’t really do a lot with him or the rest of the family. It’s painful to watch, and we all do our best to fill in some of these blanks, but at the end of it all, there’s only so much we can do. When he’s over, we treat him like family, which means I get on him just as bad as I get on Griffin. I like to t
hink it does a little good—having grown up that way myself, it’s a wonderful thing to feel like there’s some stability out there somewhere. I spent a lot of time when I was younger with my best friend Darold’s family before I moved to Des Moines to live with my grandmother. They were much like my wife’s family now, and they all provide me with the same thing: comfort in chaos and love.

  Look, I’m not a monster and I’m not judging everybody. I’ve certainly done my share of spoiling over the years. There was a period when Griff was quite young that, because I felt so much guilt from being on the road all the time, I’d take him toy shopping constantly. Maybe because of that, every once in a while he expects things he hasn’t earned or just wants something, whether it’s his birthday, Christmas, or not. That’s my fault, and I’m doing what I can to change that. But I also know my son—he has the biggest heart of anyone I know sometimes. This is a kid who likes to buy toys for other kids on his own birthday. This is a kid so sensitive sometimes that if he sees another kid crying when we’re out somewhere, he worries about that kid long after we’ve gone away from them. I’m not worried about him on that level because I know his empathy for others will always keep him out of the spoiled rotten category. All kids have their moments in that area, no matter how you raise them. They’ll eventually grow out of it. You’ve got to look past that to how they are as the people they are going to become. There’s your future adult you need to keep an eye on.

  Parents, I care. I really do. But growing up the way I did, I will tell you one thing: I’m fucking watching and taking notes too. I grew up an amateur criminal, so I know the signs. I grew up an addict, so I know where to look for that shit too. You all need to do better jobs or at least get another job to help with bail money. If you look at the way the world has gone these days, you know it’s a matter of time before something breaks, and I can lay a lot of that at your feet. But this is the age of excuses. Today it’s not the parents’ fault for some of this aberrant behavior—it’s somebody else’s entirely. If Junior gets shit grades, it’s not the kid or the parents—it’s the teachers. If Junior gets picked up for shoplifting or drugs, it’s not his or her fault nor is it the parents—it’s their friends or society. All of these excuses are horse apples, and I’ve been hearing them since before I could fire up a fart with a yellow Bic lighter. So guess what: you know why your kids take no responsibility? Because you don’t take any responsibility yourselves. You’re never at fault, so why should they be?

  It all starts at home. The moment your child leaves your house they are a walking representative of how your household rolls. If your kid is even-keeled and ready to help, usually that’s a sign of a decent upbringing. But if your kid can’t be bothered to do anything anywhere other than complain and mope and bitch or call you to bring them some fucking McNuggets (I am so sorry, but, motherfucker, that still fucking bothers me … Milt …), that shit is your fault. Sit in it. Own it. Do something about it. I don’t care. But don’t pass the buck, you prick. It’s your fucking fault.

  Let’s talk about something horribly inappropriate now.

  Most babies are really ugly, man.

  Sorry, that shit is true. I’ve seen infants who look so bad, you know for certain they are never going to grow into their faces. So it’s everything I can do to keep from losing my shit when I hear parents speak glowingly about how beautiful this ugly-ass cherub is. Oh brother—seriously? You don’t see what’s wrong there? His nose is backward! Her eye looks like it drifted down the side of her face, and that’s her best feature! Your kid looks so fugly I want to call Ghostbusters. They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I’m here to tell you plainly: the beholder can also be fucking blind. I’ve seen cuter kittens thrown into sacks and tossed into rivers. Y’all need to get your damn prescriptions checked, and I’m talking eyeglasses and medicines, whatever they may be. Jesus on a skiff …

  I’ve had to walk away from my friends when they ask questions they know damn well I’m going to answer honestly. There’s too much truth, you hear me? I have a friend with a daughter who looks very severe in the face. If I were forced to testify in court, I would swear the kid looks like a popular Harry Potter character. She asked me point-blank one day whether I thought she was pretty. I didn’t know what to do, so I turned to a simple series of movements I have dubbed the “nonoffensive committal.” Next time you find yourself in a sticky situation (snicker), try this shit on for size.

  It starts with a narrowing of the eyes, like you’re trying to see something that’s too far away. For those of you with perfect eyesight, pretend you’ve sniffed out a cat box and you’re trying not to smell while you breathe. Then slowly but surely—and this is key—SWIVEL YOUR HEAD in a languid manner, fast enough that it looks like you’re nodding yes but slow enough that deep down you know you’re shaking your head no. As you’re doing this, you have to give a sort of “Mmmmm …” sound, which could mean yes or could mean no. All of these things really rely on whatever the other person is looking for in an answer. If they want positive reinforcement, they will see a person emphatically agreeing with them. If they feel like the kid could use a “facelift,” they’ll see someone else who sees the problem. All kids are beautiful … on the inside. Some of them look like they’ve been initiated into a gang recently. I know, right!? That shit is fucked up! But you don’t know whether I’m talking about your kid or not …

  And you might never know.

  The fucked up thing is that’s not even the worst thing that me and mine say about your kids. Should I tell you how bad it gets? Shit, might as well—no one in the fucking world would believe it. How many of you are familiar with football pools? You know what I mean: you chuck your money in the kitty, pick a winner, and pray that something goes well for your team. This can be applied to any sport and has been for many years now. People make out like bandits. You get enough people chucking money in the pot, that shit can look quite tempting. It makes you do some crazy shit. It makes you consider applying the same stakes … to whether certain kids are going to grow up a certain way.

  I know, but I’ve routinely warned you all that I am not a good person. I don’t know why you keep coming back here …

  Yes, my friends and family and I bet on whether specific kids are going to grow up to do things like, oh I don’t know … rob a bank, fail in school, wear another person’s skin as pajamas—you know, normal shit that kids grow up to accomplish. I’ve got $20 bucks on a kid right now who I am convinced is going to stir someone’s guts up with a paint scraper. Trust me: if you saw this kid and talked to him—or her—you’d never fall asleep unless you had a few locked doors between you and he—or she. Yeah, it’s a fucked-up thing to bet on, the absolute collapse of a child’s potential and sanity. But hey … football season only lasts so long. And if most of you didn’t suck at raising your kids, I wouldn’t have a reason to bet on their almost inevitable social destruction.

  This chapter has of course gone off the rails (that seems to be the way I write books), right on schedule … get it? Rails? Schedule? IT’S A TRAIN JOKE! And this is a chapter about sucky kids! Right? I know, it’s flawless! Well, I had to say something to make this seem more like humor and less like my manifesto against the younger folks of the human genome. Seriously, I don’t hate all children—just yours, really. They’re all little boogers dedicated to ripping up your shit, hitting you in the face, and leaving enough food in their wake that cockroaches around the world consider your home the Tahiti of the insect world, with manna from heaven and streets made of candy, or in this case, old Cap’n Crunch and slivers of turkey sandwiches. I’m no mind reader, but I’m going to guess that you didn’t buy that house to attract vermin from any and all continents and feed their millions of babies. So why do you let your fucking kid get away with that shit?

  I’ve been watching this all, and it’s getting worse with each round of generations and kin: people too busy fucking and procreating to think beforehand about whether that’s a good idea. Then when th
ey have those kids, they don’t know what the fuck they’re doing and get super-butt-hurt when you deign to offer some advice, something like, “You might want to keep your kid from putting his mouth on that dumpster, Marge …” You’d think the smell would’ve warned the kid away from trying to taste the trash, but I think some kids are just dicks so they can prove they exist, even if that means risking their tongues to the gods of garbage. Now don’t get me wrong: I’m going to laugh. But I won’t like it.

  Part of being a parent is of course keeping the kid alive until he or she can do it themselves, but the other part is teaching them not to be a fucking asshole, and I’m sorry, but you’re all becoming very fucking derelict in those goddamn duties. I am not condoning physical punishment—God knows, I took enough of that shit to last my kids and their kids several lifetimes—but there is nothing wrong with an occasional swat on the behind to remind them that there are consequences for bad behavior. I don’t give a shit what the fucking hippies say; it’s not abuse to give your kids a spanking. I think it’s worse to raise a spoiled little shit. Then again, if you raise your kid right, you won’t have the need to give them a swat. These are all parts of being a parent—not parking your kid like a bike at the park so you can go shopping.

  Every time—and I mean every time—I am away from my kids my guts are torn up, I have a hard time sleeping, and I never feel totally happy. Seeing as I’m away from them a lot, you get the picture on what it’s like to be C motherfucking T. But that little time I get with them I try to be the best dad I can, whether that means playing with them, teaching them, or keeping them in check. This shit is hard, man. It’s not easy being a good parent; it’s a lot of work. That’s why not everybody takes the time to do it. Sure, they’ll fuck like bunnies and have the kid so they can post shitty selfies with their baby in the background, but they won’t raise it right, feed it right, treat it right, and they won’t give a fucking shit because it has nothing to do with them. Selfishness is breeding our children into ungrateful monsters, and there’s only so much I can do about it.