You're Making Me Hate You Read online

  With any bit of luck, you finally get through and to the other side, the gates, and the shops. Welcome to the most expensive convenience stores in the world. This has been a source of contention for everyone I know and every comedian on the planet who dares to rip open this tried and true mine of punitive gold. The prices in these newsstands, bookshops, and tiny markets are unbelievable, and that’s on a good day with a fistful of twenties. Plus, there’s a part of me that wonders why there are so many types of clothing for sale in the terminal stores. The sports tees and hats, I comprehend; souvenirs have been shilled since pharaohs offered parting pyramids to camel riders on the go. But suits? Cashmere sweaters? Dressy shoes and ties? Dresses and skirts and scarves (oh my)? When the hell did this become commerce for shit heels just passing through? Who in the sweet shit is showing up at the airport naked? I have never found myself in the market for a new suit of clothes while on a layover, no matter how fucking far I am flying. And even when I was drinking, I was never in need of a giant bottle of whiskey the size of a spare tire. How about this: instead of all these designer clothing stores and Worlds of Whiskeys, how about a fucking smoking lounge or two? DADDY NEEDS HIS FIX, YOU FuckERS!

  Ahem … sorry.

  Anyway, one $12 coffee, a pair of neon-green dress socks, and a bag of stale Chex Mix later, you can now start looking for your gate. But you should know better—it’s not that simple. Before any of that shit can happen, you have Where Am I to deal with. Simply put, Where Am I is a minefield of dickheads who are wandering around slowly, with no idea where the hell they are or where they are going … and they’re always in front of me. I have never wanted to kick old people so hard in my life. I have never felt such vile, bitter hatred for couples in matching Adidas gear before, and rarely does it come up outside of airports. There was that lovely husband and wife from Manchester who nearly ran me over with their Razor scooters, but that might have been my fault: I was on a bender eight years ago and had one of my own shoes off, brandishing it in an effort to fight off invisible beasts while they were trying to get by me. To Mr. and Mrs. Appleston, I sincerely apologize once again, and I do hope you’ve gotten the sight back in your respective eyes. Let’s hear it for the Applestons! By the way, guys, I did end up slaying that Smaug-like bastard.

  Where Am I is akin to searching for an address on a dark night on a street you’ve never been down before. You power down to a crawl, oblivious and squinty, trying in earnest to discover what the hell it really is you’re looking for. Meanwhile, directly behind you, there is a pedestrian traffic jam stretching back to the exit sign by the family toilets. The thing is, there seems to be no way to get around people like you; every time we try to pass, your body, your suitcase, or both moves to block the fast lane that leads us to freedom. I believe those people afflicted with Where Am I have an unconscious reverse sensor, like a backup camera on a Range Rover, that disallows anyone from getting by. These people swallow up the hallway like a binge-eating Pac-Man, dedicated to making sure NONE SHALL PASS. Like the Black Knight, even if you try to cut off their legs and arms, they’re still going to ruin your days and ways. It’s times like this when I wish I was carrying a riot gun with plastic bullets, but they make you keep that in your checked luggage, so no joy. I assured them it was three ounces …

  Because of the aggravating onset of Where Am I, I have been forced to apply an extra twenty minutes to my trip, either in the front end or the aftermath. Trust me: I can shuck and jive with the best of them, and it’s still everything in my power to get around and away from these lost and lonely imbeciles who are bound and determined to make everyone wait as long as humanly possible. But thankfully I have been blessed with four speeds when walking through the airport: low, mid, high, and Fuck Off. Once I’ve throttled up to Fuck Off, I shoot by these insipid turds with a blast of motion and some pounding of the quads. It’s everything in my power not to hurl insults over my shoulder like verbal Molotov cocktails at a riot after a GnR concert. This madness happens all over the fucking world, and it’s absolutely intolerable. I’m going to have giant spinning blades attached to my Metallica Kill ’Em All Vans like the ones from Death Race 2000 so I can start drilling into cocksuckers who refuse to do more than the speed of pulse.

  Then again, Where Am I seems to have a temporary status. Once the culprits reach their gates, this diabolical mindset evaporates, leaving these travelers scratching their heads and consulting each other to figure out how exactly they’d gotten there. WAI seems to have the effects of a date-rape drug: no recollection of what happened and a slightly soiled feeling of violation when you do come back down to Earth. Maybe this is why suddenly it is now time for urgency. Standing at the counter and banging on the top, these wayward fuck tits now are in a state of furious panic and absolute selfish insistence. No one can go fast enough for their taste, and, worse still, once the doors open for the jet bridge, they transform into the embodiment of impatience, staring anyone in front of them down like a boxer with a gun. Anyone wearing a uniform also gets the gas. All of this anger means we’ve crossed the border from Where Am I into the cantankerous lands and minefields of Hurry Up.

  Hurry Up is an interesting development because it’s an amalgam of extraordinary scale: the selfishness of Me-Me-Me, the bewilderment of WTF, and the vacancy of Where Am I converge to create a tsunami rife with ego and vacuous thought. It’s also completely fucking contrite: Why are you in such a fucking hurry to get on the damn plane? It’s not leaving until we all get on it. It’s not even going to begin taxiing until we’re all strapped into our seats. What is your fucking damage? Do you seriously believe that once you’ve jammed yourself down into one of the most uncomfortable and unforgiving seats ever invented by Man, the pilot is going to swing his head around and start the final checklist so they can get into the air faster? Do you think your presence on the plane has any bearing on the scheduled departure? The answer is simple: F no. If you’re not in your seat, they’ll probably just stuff someone else into it. The flight attendants do a final walk-through before takeoff, counting what they call SOB, which stands for Souls on Board. This includes pilots, attendants, and passengers. I can guarantee you every day for the rest of my life and yours that number will always be bigger than one, meaning you.

  This fact still doesn’t keep people from corralling around the carpet outlining the entrance to the jet bridge, bunched together like refugees hoping for an extra ham sandwich to split with the kids. They pace in tiny little semicircles, waiting for their group to be called for boarding. Every time a group number is announced that isn’t theirs, they groan, moan, and roll their eyes like teenagers listening to a lecture from their parents. They grip their tickets hard, soaking them in palm sweat. Their teeth grind so loud, I swear I can hear them all from here on my couch. The septic feeling is so powerful, it’s quite hellish. Nobody cares about anyone else; in fact, if there were no rhyme or reason to the boarding process, people would get trampled like grandmothers in the eighties looking for an affordable Cabbage Patch Kid. It is truly vicious, this vitriol spewing from the faces of the visiting public. That’s why I believe, in order for travelers to come back to a state of enjoyment while flying, TSA should offer blowjobs and/or jellyrolls to everyone right at the curb.

  You’re laughing at me right now. That’s fine. Genius is often scoffed at when it arrives in the form of odd choices and foreign advice. But I want you to think hard (snicker) about this idea for just a split second. Put yourself in the relaxation that accompanies a massive orgasm. Now imagine that feeling sticking with you all the while as you traverse the airport toward your gate. That knowing smile plastered on your face would let all those around you know everything was going to be okay. Take your time fishing your computer out of your satchel! Please, go ahead—I don’t mind! No, no … after you! My turn to get on the plane? It’s all good—we’re all going to the same place! We’re all family here! God, how good was your blowjob, mate? I know! Your wife got a vigorous rubbing as well? Brilliant! The
vibrations (snicker) given off by that sort of stress reliever would cascade over everyone like a blanket, smoke, and a pancake. You know those little kiosks where they offer to shine your shoes or give you a massage? Fuck foot rubs—unless we’re talking about a toe job. Then it would be a foot fuck rub.

  Traveling shouldn’t be this stressful. Fucking hell—nothing should be this stressful, not even a rectal exam or a body-cavity search. I blame the stupidity rampant in our civilization. You see, I believe that in order to be truly stupid, you have to have the smarts there to begin with. This intensifies the feeling when you’ve done something so daft, people stare at you with open disdain. Here lies the separation of stupidity and incompetence. If you’re stupid, you just didn’t understand what happened and then make adjustments. If you’re incompetent, you never bothered to learn in the first place. So the incompetent man keeps doing dumb shit even after he’s cautioned not to. A stupid man can learn. An incompetent man cannot. So by that rationale, stupid people traveling abroad can be taught to figure it out. But why aren’t you? You’re not all incompetent; you managed to dress yourself in clothes that weren’t covered in sick and boogies. What’s the fucking deal, people?

  I believe the glamour of flight has something to do with it. You see, years ago it was a luxury to fly on an airplane. People, dressed to the nines in their spats, suits, and fedoras, boarded a flight and were treated to the cutting edge of prestige. Now, with more equipment available and competitive pricing (kind of) it’s more accessible to the general public to hop a puddle jumper and head off into the sunset. This, however, means that everyone can get in the act, and I do mean everyone. Shit cakes dressed like off-duty strippers show up to check in while draped in sweat pants and shitty college T-shirts—colleges they never went to, by the way—and meander through the airport like there are several sticks crammed up their tight, pink, bleached assholes. The importance of what they are about to get up to is completely gone. That means, to me, for the good of the airline industry, the only way to dispose of this ignorant rubbish is to jack the prices back up into the high stratosphere. Then again, come to think of it, most rich folk are about as well mannered as a batch of Tasmanian devils dressed in Gucci claw covers. The wealthy would just use this as another way to look down on us. Well … you. I can afford to fly anytime. But I’m no fuckin’ rat! I guess until I can convince the government to implement my Curbside Fuck System, we’ll all just have to get used to the fact that nearly every airport is a harbor for the equivalent of Greyhound buses fitted with wings that may or may not fall off in flight.

  I’m going to be straight up with you: I fucking despise flying. I’m not afraid of flying, not even close. In fact, much like my wife, one of the few things I truly enjoy about being on an airplane is that no one can reach me while I’m in the air. No e-mails from people wanting something. No phone calls that will piss me off. Nobody can drop by unexpectedly or unannounced to bother me while I try to relax. It’s just me, my wife, and a book I’ve been dying to read. With the exception of not being able to smoke and an odd aversion to pooping in the vacuum of the toilet, I cherish my time onboard. But the pros of this scenario are ground into dust under the weight of the cons I’ve discussed previously. Not only that, but I hate layovers so much that I once missed an entire tour on purpose because it was going to take me five layovers in different countries just to make it to the first concert. Go ahead—scoff at me all you want. I regret nothing.

  Shall I describe to you how much I detest the flying experience? All right then …

  I once had to fly home from the end of a Stone Sour tour in England. Now, although I have nothing against long flights, I am loathe to say I abhor long stays in airports while I wait to actually get the fuck out of Dodge and get home, especially with the implementation of “the nonsmoking terminals.” Most airports, even international, are a bit shit to get through, and yet it’s still fairly simple to get outside to have a smoke. This is not the case with London Heathrow Airport. Not only is it designed to give the flyer a migraine because of the twisting caverns and miles to go before you get to your gate, but it is also damn near impossible to get out, have a square, and get back in through security by the end of the week, much less by the time your flight takes off. So once you’re in Heathrow, you are in. So addicts like myself stand outside right up until the point at which you have to barrel inside, crush through customs, and catch the only flight home that leaves for hours. This, however, is only the beginning.

  I have been forced to wander that airport for hours … and hours … and hours on end. The fucked thing is that I’m almost always stuck behind a vacationing couple from Geneva who cannot comprehend that there is essentially a mall inside this airport, so they stop to look at everything. Nine times out of ten, they stop right in front of me. The conversation is always the same and never interesting.

  “Myrtle?”

  “Yes, Heinrich?”

  “Have you seen the size of this cheese wheel?”

  “Oh my! That is big!”

  “I know, I mean, my goodness! Who’s going to eat that much cheese?”

  “Well, it could be a present for someone!”

  “A present? Of cheese? What kind of family is it?”

  “How would I know, Heinrich?”

  “I suppose they could be Russian …”

  “Now, why’s that?”

  “Well, the state doesn’t regulate their dairy consumption anymore, do they?”

  “… Did they ever do that?”

  “How should I know, Myrtle? I’m no commie!”

  “I never said you were …”

  “Okay then …”

  After a few steps more, you’d hear:

  “Myrtle?”

  “Yes, Heinrich?”

  “Have you seen the size of this boot-shaped whiskey bottle?”

  “Oh my!”

  The bitch about this scenario is that even though they have stopped, there is no way to get around this couple. They are just the right distance between the front of the shop and the oncoming foot traffic moving in the opposite direction. So it’s like being stuck at stoplights that are talking to each other, having the most pointless conversation since the advent of self-government. This is hell in comfortable shoes. This is what happens when time becomes irrelevant: you talk to your mate about the need for giant wheels of cheddar and novelty whiskey flasks. This is me not giving a fuck; I’m just fucking trying to get home.

  Heathrow, unfortunately, makes you earn that trip. No matter where you’re going, domestic or foreign, you have to take a series of buses and trams to get there, and that’s after you’ve gotten through passport control. I don’t care what the actual specs on that airport are; it will never convince me that it is smaller than a city unto itself. Someone once showed me how London proper is actually only one square mile in diameter. Heathrow feels like it’s at least one hundred times that size. Even as you get off the trains, trams, and buses, there is still quite a trek just to get to the gate. Then there’s a good chance you’ll have to go through a sort of security check again. What in the actual flying fuck is going on? I’m going to Iowa through New York—I’m not going to space through the queen’s bung chute. Really? Is this fucking necessary? You’re right: there is a great chance I’ll be able to fashion a weapon using my colon and a wooden spoon I got from a sample of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. There, you fucking happy now? Can I just get on the plane so I can pass out and wake up at home? Cool—I’ll just go fuck myself. Mahalo!

  As you can see, I am no stranger to the pitfalls of Me-Me-Me, WTF, Where Am I, and Hurry Up. I get just as impatient, act just as ignorant, and become just as impossible as the global tribe and their mad dash from point A to point B. The straight line isn’t good enough; there should be a million horsepower shoved into it. I find myself cutting paths through the people, mad and miserable, ready for a fight yet scared to death of doing so because as much as I hate everyone in that moment, I hate the idea of being stuck i
n the airport jail abroad even more. Trust me: the airport does in fact have a jail. I have a friend who ended up getting arrested and stuck behind aviation bars because he got wasted at like 8 a.m. and started some shit at the bar.

  Let’s talk about that for a minute: the overwhelming need many people have to imbibe gallons of alcohol—no matter what time it is—before, during, and after takeoff. It’s like nobody gives a shit anymore about civility. If they are past security and their passport has been stamped, they are officially on vacation, and they are going to stay bombed to fuckin’ bejeezus right up until they show up for work a week later. Now not only are you trying to get around dick bags so you can get home, but you’re also avoiding drunken idiots who think American troops enforce the English language in other countries. They also think that every racist joke and ridiculous insight about international ways is hilarious to everyone. They must think that: they scream the shit loud enough so everyone can hear it and be embarrassed about it. Plus, with all the booze they’re chugging down there’s a very good chance they’ll wake up in a Build-A-Bear Workshop, naked and balls deep in a container full of cotton and tiny bear panties. Yep. That’s my people …

  God, I fuckin’ hate people.

  I have dreams of making millions of dollars some day, hopefully in the not-so-distant future, and I’ll let you in on the first fucking thing I am going to do. No, I’m not going to buy an island, although that is indeed high on my wish list. Oh, my first badass purchase is more practical than you realize. The first thing I’m going to do is buy a private jet. I know: it’s a very “nouveau riche” thing to do, what with all the scabs like Justin fuckin’ Bieber rolling that way. That cum wipe only moves that way so people can see him as opulent and worthy of envy. This is all well and good, seeing as his talent has an expiration date just short of curdled milk. Don’t ask me to care about him—to me, he’s a terrible person who deserves your adulation about as much as George W. Bush deserves a presidential library. With as much auto tuning that goes into his “singing,” it’s almost amazing he can talk to people without someone fixing his words in a fucking studio. But we’ll get to him later … with relish.