You're Making Me Hate You (6 page)

I was so elated that I packed all my good comic book T-shirts, but I was also pragmatic enough to make sure there was ample room in my suitcase for all the things I was going to buy while I wandered the cavernous bowels of the happiest place on Earth for comic nerds. I had a plan, and I wasn’t going to let anyone
sway me from my objective: to get my grubby little hands on all the stuff I’d ever wanted to own as a child. I believe this is the stuff of legend for collectors, although it could also be considered the starting gun for a hoarder-to-be. But I didn’t care. I was going in wallets blazing and holidays be damned. The cool thing was I could bring my family, including Griff, my nieces Haven and Jaylynn, and my nephews Drew and Lil Phil. My wife, sister, and mother-in-law followed suit, if only to watch the Grown Man-Boy go ape shit at the sight of so many action figures and so little time. Shit was real; punch that shit.

I did my signing at the Dark Horse booth in the middle of the convention center and had a great time hanging out with fans and artists alike. I was giddy—the place was wall-to-wall Kick Asteroid, and I was in love with every minute of it. Everywhere I looked there was a wall covered in stuff I had to have to survive: a
Doctor Who
bathrobe that looked like the Tardis (I bought it),
Dexter
fan art (I bought it), Lego sets I had never seen before (of course I bought a few), and a whole slew of Minecraft toys for the kids. Oh by the way, I bought them. I was daunted at first when I couldn’t find many of the back-issue comics I was looking for, but that paled in the face of the fact that I was with my family in a giant room surrounded with anything else my heart could long for. However, the venom was about to present itself inside the pretty flower.

After making the rounds and checking it all out, we decided to find a restaurant somewhere and grab some foodstuffs. A couple of hours later we were making our way back to the hotel near the Con. It was during this journey back to our rented digs that we ran face-to-ass into a blockade that any man, woman, or child would shudder to find themselves immersed in. The sun had gone down. The nightlife had come to those sad streets.
And much to my chagrin and the extreme discomfort of my family, the sidewalks and roads were bloated with the preposterous pageantry I like to call “douche soup.”

Everywhere we looked, dick holes stuffed into Affliction clothing were spilling out into the street, drunk and dumb. Everywhere I turned, party chicks were flashing badger with balloons shaped like cocks for misguided headgear. As we drove we became boxed in by two very different types of transport. One was a limo covered in very suggestive writing and containing what appeared to be a lascivious bachelorette party hanging out of every orifice the vehicle had and screaming bloody murder, spilling drinks and body parts in their wake. The other was a very,
very
expensive Aston Martin DB9 cruising the concrete like a king on sabbatical. The tool shed behind the wheel looked greasy, slimy, and a little too tanned. Plus, with that badass car at his disposal, he was driving WAY TOO FuckING SLOW. I understood immediately: What was the point of having a car like that if no one could see you driving it? So Captain Butt Munch was basically in neutral, winding through the San Diego byways doing a maximum speed of half a mile per hour. It was infuriating. Between the professional alcoholics exploding from the local bars and the dinguses polluting traffic, I felt like I was stuck in gridlock at a Mardi Gras parade. This place I had waited so long to visit had become everything I had learned to hate: pretentious, overindulgent, and disgusting. Needless to say, it knocked the sparkle off of my Apple Jacks.

Then it went from bad to worse.

We found out the hard way that, the way the streets are set up in that part of San Diego, there was only one road that went across the tracks, around the convention center, and to our hotel. Unfortunately for us, we got lost twice trying to find that one sliver of cement bound for freedom. This meant we had to
drive through the melee another two times before we could get back and go to sleep. It seemed like every time we made our way through the chaos, we saw something even more offensive than before. I’ve witnessed some serious shit in my life—I’ve been to Holland, for fuck’s sake—and even I was flabbergasted, to use that word for forty points. If I hated people before, I was on the verge of homicide after that night. I don’t think I’ll ever go back, and if I do, I certainly won’t take my children. When life gives you douche soup, send it back to the chef, because it’s clearly not what you ordered to begin with.

It could be karma.

Look, I’m not an idiot. I know I have “sinned” as much as anyone else dragging knuckles around here. We’ll get to my “transgressions” eventually, and I promise I won’t hold anything back. But, man, I got to be honest: you’re making me hate you. That shit sucks, because I don’t
want
to hate you. I love you fucking shit brains. Every day I’m reminded of all the great things I love so much about the human race: good people fighting the ignorance and hate all over America; Muslim women standing stronger and taller in the face of intolerance by most of the males of Islam; Russians coming closer and closer to battling the antiquated mindsets that deal with homosexuality in their country; sciences and religions moving forward together to find the divine middle so they can better understand each other. I could write albums’ worth of lyrics full of the things that endear me to the beasts I call my fellow humans. And yet here I am, ripping shit to shreds because the louder noises are all incoherent blasts of incompetent screaming. When I’m talking to someone I can really tell has absolutely no clue about what they are babbling about, all I hear is Mr. Krueger’s sharp metal nails being dragged across a chalkboard seemingly without end. I can’t remember who said it, but there’s a great saying that goes,
“Dumb should hurt.” I couldn’t agree more, because other people’s dumb shit hurts me all the fucking time.

I’m a firm believer in balance. In life and all its trimmings there should exist a fifty-fifty pendulum that is perpetually swinging in everyone’s favor. The Haves should share the burdens of the Have-Nots and vice versa. But at this moment in this place on this dimensional plain, that shift is flying more out of sync than a drunken boy band trying out for Simon Cowell on his swag yacht. I could sit back and ignore it, like most of the fair intelligentsia around the world. However, I don’t work that way. When something’s fucked, I blurt it out, whether anyone’s listening or not. When the going gets stupid, I can’t just get out of the way. I will crash down with a spiteful hammer, like Thor with a death wish, reaping the whirlwind and using big words so no one around me knows what the hell I’m talking about. Simply put, I just don’t give a shit anymore. No one has any common sense. No one has any sense of morality. No one has any clue what they should be doing. If this were a factory floor, the place would be empty and littered with body parts because everyone would be at home nursing an injury and drawing workman’s comp. I’m trying to not let it get me down, but more and more every day I can’t get the music loud enough to drown you all out. I’ll go deaf before I go numb, though. So fucking be it.

In closing this chapter let me just gently point you in the right direction: pay attention when you’re out and about in this world we all share. Be aware of what’s going on and savvy about your actions. Start with something simple like … oh I don’t know … hurry the fuck up when you’re crossing the street. I mean that. You all just sort of saunter from corner to corner like you don’t know where you are. It’s not funny anymore. All you have to do is jog five feet, and you’re halfway there already. This is more of
a coast-to-coast problem, as in California where people are too busy posing and in New York where people just ignore you. But it’s spreading all over the world at an alarming rate. You wander out into oncoming traffic with your stupid faces buried in your cell phones, texting or talking or otherwise, acting like what you’re doing is far more important than the rest of the millions of lives being held up by your inactivity. Stop texting—the person you’re communicating with isn’t going to laugh at your joke or the smiley fucking face you send them. Stop talking—your conversation is not that essential to anyone’s life, including your own. Cross the goddamn street so we can all take care of our own bullshit.

I don’t care if you’re walking your dogs. I don’t care if you’re walking your kids. I don’t care how old or young you are. I don’t care if you have one or more legs. Move your fucking ass. This light isn’t going to stay green forever, and I need to make a right fucking turn. Never mind why I’m in such a hellfire rush to get to where I’m going; I have my own idiocy to take care of, and I need to do it right now! If you don’t get the lead out of your legs, I won’t hit you with my car. We’re way past that. What I
will
do is shit directly into my hand and throw it like a fastball into your hair. You’re turning me into a chimpanzee in a drive-by. So start with that. Then we’ll move on from there.

The tomfoolery of the outdoors has brought me to the point of violent alacrity. Vesuvius has nothing on this Irish prick here. I will ride a monstrous war cow into your numbers, flailing a mighty mace of punishment without a care for who it takes to the ground. You’re all guilty, so you’re all getting the brunt of my bombast. None of you are impressive. None of you are special. None of you are exempt. I know that spits in the face of everything we learned in Sunday school and kindergarten, but
it’s true, and painfully so. Nobody gives a shit anymore, and it shows. Nobody takes the time to see what his or her actions are doing, and it’s all over the page like a rash of punctuation that doesn’t belong there.

That’s a bit too heavy. Let me put it another way.

There is a hard-wired craving inside us all to fit in and be liked, no matter how cantankerous or embittered we have all become. It’s a primal instinct to band together in tribes or groups for safety, to know we are going to be okay. I’m no different; you’re no different—it’s like never wanting to be picked last for kickball. Things like this are vital to how we feel about ourselves and how we make our way through the world. So that makes us susceptible to even the most ridiculous sorts of behaviors, especially in public. Everyone else is behaving like shit, so why shouldn’t I, right? Hell, I can relate. I once spent two horrid weeks talking like Pauly Shore because all of my friends in high school were doing the same. But I came to with a shocked start and made damn sure I never did it again. Cool, buuuuuuddy! May-Jor! Sorry—sometimes it’s so much fun I just can’t resist falling back into bad habits. Anyway, from my own experience I know the pressure to be a part of the giant mixer of life. But the things I’m seeing you do out in the open are inexcusable. I would go so far as to say you’re making us all look bad, but unfortunately everyone is doing it. All I can say truthfully is that you’re making a small percentage of us look bad. That probably doesn’t pass much mustard for the majority of the abhorred, but with me it’s a bit of a source of rancor that I can’t let slide anymore.

But no one’s listening right now, no matter how loud I scream. All I can do is wait … wait for you all to come to your dulled senses and feel the warmth of embarrassment spread through your rosy cheeks. Mind you, I don’t know how long I can tolerate the tension as I wile away the hours. Having said that, I’ve
got time. I have hobbies: I’m getting pretty good at crocheting, and I’m nearly done with my celebratory Henry Rollins throw pillow. I’ve got my rocking chair, because I’m old, and my coffee, because I’m an addict. I can keep myself occupied for the time being. But nothing is forever. Everything is finite. My fuse will burn to the bomb, and when I go off, none of you will want to be within a million miles of my explosion. You can all go on thinking this is all fun and games and it’s just good ol’ Uncle Corey ramping it up so I can make you all laugh. But facts are facts. If the populace doesn’t restrict this pungent bullshit to the realms behind closed doors soon, I’m going to lose it.

Don’t even get me fucking
started
on Santa-Con.

Like I said: Vesuvius ain’t got shit on me.

CLOSE YOUR EYES
and let your imagination chomp down on this bastard scenario for a second—that is, if you can do so without wanting to claw your face off like the guy in
Poltergeist
. It’ll sting a bit, but do your best. Lean back and visualize the following hypothetical situation.

The alarm goes off, but you sleep through it. From the depths of your unconscious you ponder why you even set it in the first place. After you’ve hammered the snooze button half a dozen times, you finally let the correct time slither into your understanding, cutting its way past the fuzz of your slumber. Then it hits you: YOU’RE RUNNING LATE. You’re not
too
terribly late, but it’s enough that you need to hurry your ass if you’re going to be on time. Hurtling out of bed, you don’t even shower—you just throw on some clothes that may or may not be clean, having passed a hasty sniff test with a groggy nose. Couple a nonchalant rubbing of deodorant on each pit with a haphazard attempt at brushing your teeth, and your olfactory camouflage
is complete. You’ve now officially shaved some time off of your original schedule for the morning. Gathering your belongings, you drag your bags downstairs just in time to see your friend pull up, who has graciously offered to provide a ride that early in the a.m. You toss your luggage in his or her boot, hatch, or trunk, collapse into the passenger seat, and gently imply that he or she should take “the fastest way to get there.” You did it. You’re barely awake, you stink a little bit, and you’re fairly certain you’ve forgotten at least three things that are vital to your trip. But you did it. Then it hits you: you still have to get through the fucking airport. That’s the moment when you deflate like a blown-up condom and wonder why you planned this excursion in the first place.