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

homeless Nazi skinheads before, but they look really awesome. Time goes very slowly when your brain is releasingits own amphetamines and I could see them jumping over people in slow motion with their perfect cuffs and their straightlaced leather boots. The bomber jackets seemed to be made for running and the neat white shirts with suspenders and short-cropped hair looked so badass, I wanted an oil painting of my imminent demise.
    After knocking over an old lady and sending her Christmas presents sprawling all over the street, I made a sharp left and sprinted across the road. In Pac-Man, you gain a lot of traction by making turns, but in real life the ghosts catch up, and I soon realized the chase was over. As I approached the other side of the street, I looked to my left and saw a young bald racist running through the air like a ghost-white LeBron James in springy shoes. His flying scissors kick smashed into my solar plexus and sent me crashing against the curb like a bag of potatoes. Before I could react to that, the others showed up and started kicking me with the kind of relentless hatred you only get from growing up in juvenile detention.
    I covered my head and managed to keep most of the beating to my ribs, but after a good twenty seconds (that’s about a week in being-kicked time) I started to wonder if this was ever going to stop. It wasn’t, so I came up with an idea. I’d scare them into thinking they’d paralyzed me for life. “My back!” I yelled while letting my whole body go limp, “I can’t feel my legs!” These guys either didn’t know or didn’t care if I had a broken back and they kept whaling on my limp body like I was Rodney King. I gave up on playing dead and went back to protecting my head. When they finally decided to call it a day, I was a broken jar of jam dressed in punk clothes, and they dragged my bleeding body over to a park bench to exchange the boots.
    As some chick untied my boots and handed them over to John, a huge Native guy walked up and said, “Is everything OK here?” I jumped up, yelled, “Hell no, kemosabe,” and we put our backs together while kicking the living shit out of each skinhead using multidimensional space-age karate moves. Oh, wait—that’s the fantasy I have every time I relive this story in my head. What really happened was I said, “Everything’s fine,” so the Indian shrugged and walked away.
    I walked home in John’s shitty boots and vowed to punch Pukeyin the face the next time I saw him (which I did). The next morning I couldn’t get out of bed and it was at least two months before I could laugh or cough without grabbing my aching ribs. Shortly after I was able to laugh without pain, Geoff returned from one of his southern sojourns and kicked the crap out of John. Apparently he had shamed the skinhead name by not fighting me one-on-one. A year after that, John threw himself in front of a train. Then Geoff blew his head off. After that, I was told Francois and Wolf went to prison, where they quickly became wiggers. The skinhead movement was dwindling when a punk gang from Toronto called Bunch of Fucking Goofs came through town and beat up every last one. That was the end of skinheads in our neck of the woods.
    Everyone involved died or went to jail but that doesn’t make me feel better, because I will never forgive myself for not high-fiving that Indian and dying with my boots on. That’s the thing about being male: You quickly forget the times you were victorious. It’s the times you pussied out that stick in your craw forever.

Is Everybody on This Planet a Tree Planter? (1991)
    I started university in 1988 and worked as a janitor at the school to pay my rent. Canada’s system is British so tuition was only about $1,500 a year back then and part-time work was almost enough to live well without going into debt. Unfortunately, cleaning up the school before the students got there meant waking up when it was still dark out. That sucks. Before