Read You're Making Me Hate You Online
Authors: Corey Taylor
You're Making Me Hate You
C
ONTENTS
C
HAPTER
3:
F
LIGHT OF THE
D
UMBKOFFS
C
HAPTER
4:
D
YSFUNCTION OVER
F
ASHION
C
HAPTER
7:
G
ET
A
LONG
, L
ITTLE
D
OGGIES
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HAPTER
9:
W
HAT THE
F
UCK
I
S
T
HAT
N
OISE
?
C
HAPTER
10:
H
ELLO
, P
OT
—I’
M
K
ETTLE
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HAPTER
11:
A
FTER THE
B
ASTARDS
G
O
H
OME
Slipknot and Stone Sour frontman Corey Taylor’s new book is a searingly hilarious trawl through the endless backwaters of human stupidity, by the bestselling author of
Seven Deadly Sins
and
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Heaven
.
Corey Taylor has had it. Had it with the vagaries of human behaviour and life in this postmodern digital blanked-out waiting room that passes for a world. Reality TV, awful music, terrible drivers, airports, family reunions, bad fashion choices, other people’s monstrous children, and badly behaved ‘adult’ human beings are warping life in the 21st century into an often-unbearable endurance test of one’s patience, fortitude and faith.
You’re Making Me Hate You
is a blisteringly funny diatribe that skewers the worst aspects of human behaviour with a knowing eye for every excruciating detail, told in the vivid way that only Corey Taylor can.
Like his previous bestselling forays,
You’re Making Me Hate You
is an unsparing glimpse into the mind of Corey Taylor, who spares no one from his seething gaze. Make no mistake: this is not the Corey Taylor you run into at meet-and-greets or in line at the coffee shop. This is not the kind and cuddly guy who kisses babies and takes pictures with your mum while leaving a voicemail for your distant cousin. This is not the loveable scamp who can poke just as much fun at himself as he does at the various rubes around him – though to be fair he does save one chapter for a brutal and lacerating self-analysis. This is Corey Motherfucking Taylor. This is the Great Big Mouth. This is that bastard you wonder about when you listen to Slipknot and Stone Sour.
Funny, profane, blasphemous and, above all, right on target,
You’re Making Me Hate You
is pure Corey Taylor unleashed, exposing the underbelly of human depravity in all its ragged glory.
Corey Taylor is the author of two
Sunday Times
bestsellers,
Seven Deadly Sins
and
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Heaven
. Lead singer of rock bands Slipknot and Stone Sour, Taylor has earned 11 platinum records, 43 gold records, and a Grammy Award. A native of Iowa, he spends his time between there, Las Vegas and his suitcase.
LSO BY
C
OREY
T
AYLOR
Seven Deadly Sins: Settling the Argument Between
Born Bad and Damaged Good
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Heaven:
Or, How I Made Peace with the Paranormal and
Stigmatized Zealots and Cynics in the Process
To Ryan and Griffin, Haven and Lawson, Angeline and Aravis …
I love you all with the whole of my heart …
I only hope you grow to be better than me.
—CT
The difference between stupidity and genius is that genius has its limits.
—Albert Einstein
I have tried to know absolutely nothing about a great many things,
and I have succeeded fairly well.
—Robert Benchley
Hell is other people.
—Jean-Paul Sartre,
No Exit
Which one of these words don’t you understand?
Talking to you is like clapping with one hand!
—Anthrax, “Caught in a Mosh,”
Among the Living
HAPTER
1
J
UST
B
EFORE THE
S
TORM
F
OREBODING FAKE DISCLAIMER:
By reading this book and subsequently promoting its contents, whether in physical conversation or digital form, you are entering into an informal contractual congress with the author, one Corey Taylor, known from here on out as “The Neck.” This verbal agreement, semilegally recognized in several states and countries (including Guam), gives The Neck permission to smack any of you readers in the face with a plastic wiffle ball bat if and when you commit any of the ridiculously idiotic atrocities that will eventually be described in the tome you now hold in your hands. Herein there will be no warnings or recognition of first offenses regarding violation of this so-called dumbass agreement, and the resulting punishment will most likely happen when you least expect it, coming at the author’s earliest convenience, depending on his amateur squash league schedule and other proclivities. If these terms do not appeal to “the better angels” of your judgment, you are encouraged to cease reading this book immediately or, better
yet, pass it on to someone you are convinced will be susceptible to breaking this covenant, thus setting the stage for retribution. You will then be enlisted to assist The Neck in finding the offender’s residence, affording you a front-row seat to watch the plastic violence firsthand. Thank you.
It was a weird, drunken, spooky night twelve years ago.
I’d love to say I remember it well, but the fact of the matter is my old friend Jack Daniels and I had engaged in a battle of wills that night. Jack won; I placed. So what I can muster from my shitty college dorm room called a memory bank is fuzzy, at least for the first half of the proceedings. Through nobody’s fault but my own, shit happened all down my leg. That is as close to foreshadowing as I am going to go at this point because what I
do
recall is precariously close to the sort of thing you hear about when someone sits you down for a cautionary tale about drugs and booze and bullshit. So pretend for a moment that I am the parent and you are the child. I think it goes without saying that you’re snickering, and the paltry attempts to stave off that snickering is not appreciated, but I get it. It is indeed a strain to imagine yours truly as the voice of reason. After all, I’m the guy who stuck his dick in an orange at a meet-and-greet for $26.10 … in change. Please just bear with me if you can bear the tension. I promise the following story will not only set the stage for this book in rare form but will also hopefully make you chuckle, chortle, and snort as well. God forbid, you might even learn something. I highly doubt that last prediction.
If you’ve read any of my other tomes of torment, you will naturally understand that twelve years ago was my notorious epic run during the making of
Vol.
3: The Subliminal Verses
. Honestly, I could milk that period of my life for as long as I punch pain into inputs, but this book is much more about the present and the future. So I am only going to dip into this particular
ink well for a brief moment because it has some insight into the topic at hand. It involves alcohol, various nefarious drugs, a party, a redhead, and a man in an ill-fitting bandana wearing leather pants. I don’t even remember their names—probably because I never bothered to learn them. So giving them names that are most likely not the ones they were blessed with isn’t out of respect; it’s because I simply didn’t give a shit about them in the first place. In fact, if they do read this and get offended I couldn’t care less. They’re the ones with enough egg on their faces to make omelets for an entire Los Angeles basketball team, so fuck them.
That’s the kind of book this is going to be: tug on your fucking helmets.
Any-who …
I started this night at the hole of holes, the heaven of hells: the Rainbow Bar and Grill. I know—this place appears in so much of my writing that I’d have to cast it as an actual person in any movie made about my life. However, it has always been a giant, beautiful nugget in the gold mine of my absurdities. Thank fuck this story is not a spotlight on
my
dumb shit; I am merely the one who had to witness the buggery. But all tales start somewhere. The starting pistol sounded off at the outside bar, where respectable people can still have a cigarette nuzzled up against finished mahogany while drowning themselves in libations. There’s another piece of fine “intelligence”: “Hey, I’m going to go inside this place and blow my brains out on alcohol, thereby killing my brain cells and liver while also doing damage to other vital organs. I might even do some blow in the bathroom. But those other fuckers better go outside to SMOKE!” Fuckin’ savages …
I was hanging out with a friend who had been invited to a party in Silver Lake, a section of LA not too terribly far from
the Rainbow. Well, I say not too terribly far: the truth is, I didn’t know how far it was—I wasn’t driving. All I remember was climbing into my friend’s sedan afterward and hanging out the window to let the cool air put the kibosh on my spins. I believe there was even a spirited debate about whether we could cruise through the Del Taco drive-thru for inexpensive meat envelopes. Now that I think about it, I do have a visual of taking a piss behind a dumpster in the parking lot while chatting with a nice gentleman who was none too pleased about the expulsion, maybe because I was singing “And We Danced” by the Hooters at concert volume. People in line at the outside menu couldn’t be heard on the speaker. I guess I was calling way too much attention to his rummaging around in those giant canisters for fuck-knows-what. Once I was back in the car and loaded for bear with crappy fast food, we got back on track. Then before I knew it, we were at the party.