You're Making Me Hate You Read online

  In summation, fashion makes us idiots in so many ways and on so many levels that, quite frankly, I’m amazed someone hasn’t presented a bill to Congress to outlaw this type of behavior. It cuts the crowd into little pieces, gives people control over others’ feelings, makes us look like dick faces in retrospect, and brings to the surface envy and malevolence that is so palpable, we could flavor it and serve it over toast. Speaking for the world at large, none of us want to feel like shit, and we certainly don’t want to feel like we look like shit. But most of us do, and it’s because we’ve got our cultural noses stuffed up into the ass in front of us, regardless of whose ass it is or what they’re doing with it. Some of these may be high and mighty, but most of them may in fact just be mighty high wipers, and when our brown noses come back from being turned up at everything, all we’re going to taste is shit. Humble pie is a turd no one wants to sample on a cold day. But you know what? It’s certainly a dose that some of these cretins could use more often.

  Who cares how you look? Just do what I do: pretend you’re a superhero and wear the same thing every day. It’s not gross if it’s considered a “uniform” and you can claim you fight crime! Seriously, how much can I know about fashion to get this worked up about it? I’m in Slipknot, the band that wears matching coveralls and masks. I’m not exactly getting blown up by top designers to walk the runways at their events. But I have taste. I have class. There are no real photos of my naked body on the Intro-Webs. I’m smarter than most, even as I’m shorter than others. I think my opinion on this matter has a little heft. You don’t have to listen to me, of course. But if you use your mind for a second, if you dedicate your faculties to something other than Tweets and whistles, you might pick up on it. If you take the time to let the smoke clear your eyes, you’ll see the mirrors doing what they do best: hiding the evidence and twisting reality. Once that’s done, all you have to do is find the exit out of the Fun House. But don’t look back—you may catch a glimpse of how long the queue is that’s pushing and barging through the entrance. And knowing people the way I do, it’ll take everything you’ve got not to hop back in line.

  Be comfortable. Be original. Be careful what you wish for. There are times and places to look your best and there are also those days when “screw this” is a great mind-set to have. Personally I try to merge those days as much as possible. Sure, you could set your watch to my sense of style, but hey, somewhere between Jeff Goldblum in The Fly and Doc Severenson from The Tonight Show, The Great Big Mouth abides. I don’t need leather or lace, silk or canvas, or anything that comes with an expiration date. When all is said and done, I can rock the crowd in pajama bottoms, a Slayer T-shirt, my Scot’s golf cap, a Star Wars zip-up, and some checkerboard Cons. Or I can go all out and really try for something disturbing, like what I wore on Halloween at the Hammersmith Apollo six years ago.

  Some of you remember. Don’t make me do it again.

  CHAPTER 5

  DRIVING ME CRAZY

  USE YOUR FUCKING turn signals.

  That’s right: no build-up, no funny story, and no cool segue in which I save a puma from a blender that has suddenly become self-aware, Terminator style. We are diving directly into the deepest shit possible. It’s so simple and yet it seriously causes me fits of all-consuming, homicidal rage. I have honestly followed people to wherever they are going—or as far as the madness sustains me. One time I pulled into the driveway behind a particularly inept fuckhole behind the wheel of a Chevy Cavalier as they parked in their garage; I only left when it looked like they were going to dial 911. Another time long ago—I don’t remember the year but I remember it was December—I pulled a rage-brake so hard that I spun out in the middle of Valley West Drive. Luckily there was no one around to ram into—damnit … —but I was so angry that I forgot where the hell I was going in the first place. I couldn’t even remember why I was on the west side of Des Moines to begin with. All I knew was that I really needed to pummel someone with the hood of my car. But seeing as I couldn’t do that, I sat perpendicular, blocking two lanes of traffic, gripping the faux-leather wrap of my steering wheel, biting back venom. Finally I just gave up my prior endeavor and instead went to the mall and bought action figures.

  This is what your dumbass driving “skills” make me: a livid, forgetful collector—or hoarder, as my wife calls me—who has a tendency to fishtail in light snow at major suburban intersections.

  All because you people can’t do something simple like pull up or down on a thin plastic/metal stem protruding from the side of your steering wheel, well within reach of those stupid little hands of yours. For fuck ball’s sake, its use and meaning for existing is in the name of the contraption itself! It’s a turn signal. You use it when you are going to fucking TURN! Not after you’ve already turned, not seconds before you make the actual turn, not incorrectly when you panic because you realize you haven’t signaled at all so you signal left but you’re actually turning right, and for that matter not bothering to signal at all. You use it when you turn. That’s why it’s named a fucking turn signal. This isn’t algebra. Shit, this isn’t even pressure to write a fucking haiku. It’s an example of only the most common of common-sense gestures.

  I get it: you were too busy texting to pull on it. You were too busy turning to let me know you were doing so safely. You were too busy smearing Avon and mud on your face in an attempt to blend in with your “coworkers” to be bothered with that tawdry little function in your fucking Kia Sedona. Fine. But here’s the thing: when you don’t do something you are required to do for safety reasons while you are handling a motor vehicle, I don’t care what side of the fucking car you are on. SIGNAL THAT YOU ARE TURNING. I will definitely ram a motherfucker to prove a point. And I know enough police officers who would agree with my reasons to get away with it.

  As you might assume, this chapter is all about your garbage excuse for driving. Of course, you’ll understand that I myself am not included in these infractions. I am an impeccable driver—not one accident in all my years of firing up Detroit engines for transportation. The weird thing is, according to everyone I know, I’m one of the worst drivers to be in a car with. How the fish dick fuck stick does that work? No accidents on my record, no crazy Evel Kneivel stunts, no rolling from the car as I drive it toward a building full of bad guys, and yet I am the one they won’t get in a car with. You have got to be fucking kidding me. I know for a fact that some of these friends of mine have been in accidents that were their fault. I know for a fact that most of them have had their licenses revoked at least once in their lives. But I’m the big bad daddy long-legs scaring the children as blood flows red on the highway? Show me on the doll where that makes any sense …

  There were a few little missteps: the speeding tickets, the parking tickets, the time I got pulled over and my car was searched because, and I quote, “You look like you take drugs, son. Of course I pulled you over.” That guy was a judgmental prick, but I got even. I made him get a warrant to search my car—made him sit there and wait with me until the warrant got there. Then I made no attempt to help him as he pulled my car apart, looking for drugs he “knew were there.” The officer who brought the warrant apologized to me. The other officer, who was older, tried to give me a ticket for speeding after the fact, but I contested it in court and won. The older cop was slapped with a warning for harassment. Nothing against any other member of the police, but if he’s out there … fuck you very much, officer.

  So yeah, I’m a perfect driver in my own head. But aren’t we all? I think that’s where the problem stems from: the fact that we all think we’re great behind the wheel, kind of like how all guys think they’re awesome in bed and how all women think they’re fooling anyone when they say they don’t talk with their friends about how we are in bed. This is Hakuna Matada in its purest form. It is what it is, as I am prone to say at any given time during the day. It’s a lot like incompetence in a weird way. Someone who’s incompetent doesn’t know they’re incompetent because they don
’t know what they don’t know, and even when it’s pointed out to them, they can either accept it or contest it with slang, slurs, and silly expletives. So yes, my furry friends: you all suck the butter stick at driving. But don’t let it get you down, because it’s a universal affliction.

  Here’s something else that chaps my chowder: check your fucking mirrors and blind spot before you change lanes or make a turn. Some people just meander over without even seeing whether they’re clear. This is a case of “I’m the Only Driver on the Planet” syndrome. The turn signals go in that category too. But you know you’re dealing with one of these creatures when you’re tooling down the highway, doing fine with the car next to you … and suddenly you’re nearly being forced off the road by the pseudo Mad Max wannabe in the other lane who didn’t give a shit whether anybody was there or not. Then when they do realize that this is a public road and someone else is on it, they don’t give you a look of attrition; they look at you like it was your fault, like you snuck up on them even though they were behind you. Awareness is three-fourths of the issue when it comes to good or bad driving; the other quarter involves knowing what the car is capable of. Here’s a hint: it’s big as shit and has been known to kill. Figure it the fuck out.

  If the roads were Crash-Up Derby, I wouldn’t give a square toss—I’d fly a plane and drop balloons full of feces on you as I cruised overhead. But the mean streets aren’t supposed to be that mean. They are lines between points A and B—means to an end, the way through the maze. You’d think with the awareness that roads are options and driving is a commitment, this would be simple physics. However, it all gets jumbled. It appears that awareness of the road and driving is optional with little commitment. That’s like forgetting to light a gas stove, sticking the turkey in, letting the house fill with gas, then firing up a cigarette.

  Los Angeles can suck it when it comes to driving. Seriously.

  That fucking city is packed with incredibly fucked drivers, every one of them oblivious, full of entitlement, and asking to get crushed under my wheels. It’s not like New York, where driving is a challenge and you hold on for dear life. It may terrify you, but you respect it in the Big Apple—it’s all about precision, timing, and speed. Oh, and a shitload of honking horns and screaming East Coast accents. I can back that shit all day. You know you’re going to have to deal with some crazy shit, so you prepare, but at least you know everyone else feels the same way. This is not the case in California, where “depending on how the energy feels,” an asshole in a Prius may not make a left turn all day because their chakras won’t allow it. These people make turns from THE MIDDLE LANE; as far as I’m concerned, they earn the dents in their fucking cars.

  I finally figured out why people in LA drive like shit—it’s because they walk like shit. While I was making .5: The Gray Chapter, my wife and I were living in Venice. So I would go for runs on the boardwalk down by the beach. The upside to this was miles of twisting, turning, paved foot/bike paths, winding along the coastline and offering you a wonderful view of some of the good shit California has to offer. The downside was enough to make me want to run to the end of the Santa Monica pier and jump in with an armload of free weights to make sure I bottomed out and drowned completely. These tracks would be littered with people just meandering about, looking at the sand or the sky or the skate shops in the market areas. If you remember the airport chapter, you know my feelings on people who just train off at the brain and give the appearance that they were just released from a basement dungeon loaded with shellshock. The people on the boardwalk make those people look like they’re running heated marathons. You try to run by them; they just casually get in your way. They see you coming they just think to themselves “fuck it” and spread out across the lanes like they are at a protest. Hey, Grandma! Get the Fuck out of my way! I don’t give a shit that you’re eighty-three—I made the mistake of eating Del Taco at four in the morning! I need to run this garbage off before I accidentally shit myself!

  So the walking is reflected in their driving. You’ll be following some jerk off in his or her Corolla, wishing death on them because they’re cruising around at a healthy 23 mph, when suddenly their stupid brake lights come on, you nearly crush right into their ass end, and they begin the most painfully lackadaisical turn known to man or beast, not even using the turn signal until they are halfway through the intersection. No amount of honking, cursing, yelling, or gesturing of legal firearms can harsh their mellow. They didn’t even realize it was their turn until they got right on top of it. It’s times like these that make me wish I had a fucking flamethrower on hand.

  Christ, I need to wipe my mouth: I’m frothing over here …

  It’s a miracle to me that I don’t have more notches in my gun barrel. That’s not me admitting that I have a gun with notches representing kills I may or may not be responsible for. “I have never killed anyone for being stupid.” I used those marks to denote a quotation, and that could have come from anybody, really. So as far as you know, “I do not have a gun with notches representing kills I may or may not be responsible for” … said someone, somewhere most certainly.

  Let’s stay in California for a minute—if we really have to. Here’s another issue on the road I fucking loathe: people in “high-end” cars who feel the need to rev them up and float in and out of traffic. Now, when I say high end I don’t mean real high end, like your Ferraris, Porsches, Aston Martins, and whatnot. I mean Honda Accords with spoilers equipped with engines that sound like bored-out lawn mowers, complete with primer paint jobs and the giant window decal in Old English font that reads something tough like “REBEL” or “THUNDER.” You know the cars I’m talking about. I can almost guarantee that we all make fun of these dickheads on a regular basis. They zip in and out of the flow on the road, thinking we are impressed. The only thing impressed on us is the fact that the driver is a ball bag with a license.

  You may be getting the idea that I dislike driving. This is not the case at all! I love being behind the wheel, floating down the road at a healthy clip, music cranked, windows down, letting the breeze keep me posted on how fast I’m actually going. I love driving, especially on the highway. Where most people seem opposed to long road trips, I positively love them. I used to go on long trips all the time. The highway is close to being the last place where you can get out on the concrete and fly with no restrictions outside of the usual speed limits and regulations. But notice I said “close.” I have to add this because of an affliction I call the “Left Lane Conspiracy.” In Britain and other places where the driving is reversed, you may call it the “Right Lane Conspiracy.” But for now I’m going to describe it from an American perspective, so just convert on your own terms depending on where your life happens to hit the gas.

  Everyone knows that on the highways, freeways, and interstates there is a generally accepted rule of thumb: the left lane is fast and the right lane is slow. Sure, you can debate that by saying, “Well, actually the left lane is meant to be a passing lane.” Okay, well, that’s the fast lane: it’s so I can pass you. Just because I don’t happen to leave that lane doesn’t mean I can’t use it for exactly what it’s meant for. It’s the fast lane—get over yourselves. Left lane = fast; right lane = slow. I can’t begin to understand how anyone on the planet could miss that memo. Hell, I knew that before I could reach the fucking pedals. But apparently there are those who not only don’t seem to understand this pseudo-factoid but also flat out refuse to acknowledge it. So much like a batch of elderly bridge club members moseying down the boardwalk in Venice, they flitter about the byways, abusing the left lane. Then, when you come up behind them, they ignore you. When you try to go around them using the right lane, which is a necessary evil sometimes, they speed up and try to match you. Only when you get back in the left lane behind them do they slowly proceed to change lanes, forgetting to use THAT FuckING TURN SIGNAL until the very last second. Then, as you pass by them in a fit of rage, they give you that shitty “tsk tsk” look. Sorry, Uncle
Fuck Slick, but that is a surefire way of getting slammed into and run off the road, Mad Max style. You have the conceit to disregard the cherished Left Lane Rule, and you’re going to judge me? I have friends who are police. I’ll have them run your plates so I know where you live. Then I’ll interrupt your dinner and we’ll discuss your terrible decisions as I languidly pat a cricket bat in my hand.

  Note to you and yours: don’t fuck with the guy who’s willing to go crazy to prove a point.

  There’s an addendum to this, however. If I’m in the fast lane with cars on my right side and you come flying up behind me expecting me to get over when there’s clearly no way I can do so, do not flash your fucking lights at me. Yes, I know we’re in the middle of nowhere and you’re in a terrible hurry. But if I can’t get over at that exact moment, settle the fuck down. I’m not going to force an Astro van full of Denver transplants off onto the shoulder just so you can get to Lawrence, Kansas, three minutes quicker. Wait until I get past the congestion, and then I’ll get over for you. But if one more prick flashes his dumb halogen headlamps at me when there’s nothing safely I can do, I will do something dangerous. I’ll slam on my brakes and kill us both … just to be right. Again, just a gentle reminder: DO NOT Fuck WITH THE GUY WHO’S WILLING TO GO CRAZY TO PROVE A POINT.