You're Making Me Hate You by Corey Taylor

the Oscars or the Grammys, like a kid watching his friends eat candy he
knows
fell in poop. You could almost see the targets in her eyes as the masses moved their asses through her crosshairs. When she found the weakest of the pack, she pounced. Rivers did
not
let up until hercomments were in
People
,
Us Weekly
, and every website devoted to eating our heroes. Then a few months later it would happen again. I’m sorry, but I’d rather wear sweatpants into the White House with the world’s biggest boner than go through
that
kind of scrutiny any time in my fucking future.
    It’s also my distaste for “peacocking” that causes me to turn my nose up at the deliverance of trendy getups. To me, alpha males are like the Betamax: not much use in the modern world and a pain in the ass to get rid of. Alpha
anything
is just ugly—women are just as bad. This brings me to the center of the universe where all this hellish crap collides: the modern-day club night. Good fucking God, I haven’t experienced discomfort like this since my first rectal exam … and at least my doctor felt bad about it later. Let me explain—not about the rectal exam but about the … never mind. It would take longer to back out of this apology correctly than it would to explain why it’s none of your business about that exam or why I’m depressed that my doctor hasn’t called me.
    One weird moan …
    Anyway, I did a couple of solo shows in Las Vegas a few years back—one with a band full of my friends and another one purely acoustic—and the show’s promoters asked me to make an appearance at their club as a way to drum up excitement for the events. For whatever reason I agreed. Almost as a subliminal way of admitting that I’d made a huge error in judgment, I dragged my friends in the band and the rest of my family along with me. It became very apparent I’d made a horrible decision as I was suddenly and effectively blasted by nausea and regret once we entered the establishment.
    Everywhere I looked men and women alike were gussied up in their “party clothes,” which, by the way, ALL FuckING LOOK THE GODDAMN SAME, just in different colors and cuts. Itwas like being in the Realm of the Replicates on Hawaiian-Shirt Wednesday. The women all had on dresses that barely fit over their surgically enhanced bodies, making them resemble a strange mix of Madame Trousseau’s and the Hall of Presidents at Disney. There was no room to dance, but they did their best to do so anyway, clumsily flailing and wailing in a room that was too small to be that loud. The men were, shall we say, afflicted with the same outfit: tight dress shirts with rolled sleeves, terrible jeans with bedazzled jewels and tribal stitching, heavily gelled spiky/slicked hair, and black nondescript shoes. Every one of them had already sweated right through their clothes. Every one of them looked greasy and moist. Every one of them smelled like they’d bathed in Cool Water or some other noxious tonic. It was by far the grossest display I’ve had to endure in my forty years of dragging knuckles on this planet, and that’s saying something—I’ve been to Tijuana.
    The music might as well have been cued up by the entire cast of the
Jersey
Shore
. This did nothing to improve my situation; in fact, it made it harder for me to leave because everywhere I looked these mooks were “dancing.” Dancing, as I like to say, like they were being shot with arrows. They were also blocking all the exits with their meandering moves and silly spillage. I had nowhere to go, so the family, my friends, and I huddled in a back booth, mocking the people while also studying their habits. The fucked up thing is that with the exception of a table of businessmen from Dallas, NOT ONE PERSON IN THE JOINT GAVE A SHIT THAT I WAS THERE.
    Not one.
    There was no real reason for me to be there—this wasn’t exactly my demographic. But the club owners insisted I stay for a while because it would be good for my