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

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 globaltribe 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 in 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