Free You're Making Me Hate You by Corey Taylor Page A

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 nearlyevery 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