How to Piss in Public by Gavin McInnes Read Free Book Online

blessed us all with magic devil powers and even healed my leg by removing the cast and commanding me to walk (which fucking killed). As we praised black Ozzy’s satanic powers, Dead Milkmen vocalist Rodney Anonymous Mellencamp magically appeared with a pitchfork and killed him. We gasped in horror and were inconsolable until Blake pointed out that the show must go on.

    Right before being “healed” by Ozzy. Note leg brace. (1990)
    The rest of the set was all about bringing Ozzy back from the grave. We had written a song for the event with a chorus that went, “Oh-double-Zed-Y,” again and again and we forced the audience to sing along in an attempt to revive the Sabbath singer. We encouraged people to stop slam-dancing and take a moment of silence to pray for our leader. I even climbed up to the rafters using a rope that took all the skin off my hands and hollered spooky-sounding pleas for him to return. Nothing worked until we all got together to shit in a bucket, which was then thrown into the crowd. That worked.
    The shit wasn’t shit. It was unwrapped chocolate bars but they were very convincing and got such good air, one of them flew by my mom, who was standing at the back with a girlfriend of mine. I was told later that my mom said, “Charming,” after it flew past her head.
    Ozzy was back and we reprised the Ozzy song with black Ozzy himself singing the chorus. We dragged this part out so long, Rodney showed up with his pitchfork again and chased us all off the stage. Then the Dead Milkmen went on. What an intro. As Crass did in 1984 after their Miner’s Benefit, we packed it in after that show because it was obvious we had achieved perfection and there was no sense commencing our inevitable decline.
    After the show, I caught up with my mom and asked her what she thought. She was angry about the poo but I managed to calm her down and explained it was four Oh Henry! bars and a Mars bar. “Oh,” she said, finally convinced. “Well, good then, because throwing feces at people is illegal. You know that, right? It’s assault.” I was going to say, “Well, then monkeys in the zoo should be in jail,” but I didn’t because I realized monkeys in the zoo are in jail.

Stomped by Very Stylish Nazis (1988)
    T he Nazi skinheads in our quaint little government town were like exaggerations of Hollywood bad guys. Their leader, Geoff, regularly made trips down south to meet with militia groups and would come back with a trunk full of guns. He was a Coke-machine-shaped ogre who eventually blew his giant head off with an M16 while on the phone with his baby’s mama. Just below him on the bully scale was Wolf, a stocky psychopath who carried a cane with a removable handle that doubled as a rapier, like he was some kind of British assassin from the 1800s. At the bottom of the top brass was the foppishly named Francois, a French-Canadian nationalist whose entire back was tattooed with three gigantic Klansmen riding their horses into battle—a battle that must have been happening somewhere down his ass crack.
    We tried to fight these guys, but it was like fairies trying to wrestle Skeletor. Not only were we outmatched, we were outviolenced. It wasn’t unusual to be sitting at a house party drinking beer and have a dozen of them swarm through the front door smashing everyone (women included) with baseball bats, only to disappear out the back asquickly as they came. Aidan was particularly damaged by one of these attacks and seemed weird afterward. They would come to our shows and beat us up in the pit, then they’d get onstage and attack the band. We occasionally won, but you sound like an asshole describing a fight you won so I’ll leave those out. For the most part the “Boneheads” met little resistance stealing our beer, our girlfriends, and even our boots.
    Back in the eighties, Dr. Martens were a coveted combat boot mostly used by British mailmen. They were orthopedic and very cool looking, so whenever skinheads