Free How to Piss in Public by Gavin McInnes Page A

plastic rainbow headband and blood goggles. He also had a shovel in his hand. Tree-planting equipment is tough. The shovels weigh about twenty pounds with a steel handle, blade, shoulder, and cutting edge. To be brained with one of these would take a tenth of a second and even if you weren’t knocked unconscious, you would definitely bleed to death on the way to the hospital, which was at least seven hours away. As I stared at his death blade in my peripheral vision, I realized this motherfucker had lost it a long time ago and what I was seeing was some mentally ill zombie shit. He was in a blackout of madness.
    I have spoken to some guys who have been to prison and they tell me the best way to deal with a psycho is to shrug him off. If you’re playing cards with the other inmates and someone comes up to you with a broken pen while shouting, “You want me to stab this in your fucking face!?” you have three choices: You can get tough and threaten him (stabbed); you can whimper and beg for mercy (stabbed); or you canshrug your shoulders like he’s asking you if you want another Jujube and casually say, “Nah” (not stabbed).
    I looked John right in his unbelievably gory face, shrugged my shoulders, and said, “You’re not getting new land until you go back and fill in those spots.” Then I turned around and walked away thinking, “Please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.” I had no idea if my fake coolness had calmed him down or if I sealed my fate as a blasphemer who must be executed in the name of the Lord. As I pondered this ultimatum, I heard the fwum, fwum of the Reaper’s scythe hurtling through the air. I whipped around to see the last fwum miss me by two inches and the shovel smash against a tree stump, taking off a fist-sized chunk of wood that was meant to be my cerebellum. I had escaped death by a mere two inches. I knew I had to stand my ground, but fear poured over me like that bucket of pig’s blood in Carrie. “You just fucked up big-time,” I said like he was about to get three weeks of detention. “BIG-time!” I stormed off but it wasn’t easy to walk because adrenaline had my knees jiggling like a pair of tits.
    I avoided the school bus and went back to camp in Markus’s truck. I explained exactly what had happened and he told me he’d handle it, like I was complaining that the Porta-Potty was full. His apathy infuriated me. “Dude,” I yelled, “ handle it? Who do you think you are, Harry Houdini? You can’t ‘handle’ this. He doesn’t need a talking-to. He doesn’t even need to be fired. He needs his family to come here with the men in the white coats and have him taken away. He’s GONE.” Markus agreed. We stopped at the refers (large eighteen-wheelers full of baby trees) to check when they’d be ready to unload and spent a few hours refueling the ATVs. When we finally got back to camp, we agreed we were going to take John into town and see about medical help. We made our way over to his tent only to see a small rectangle on the ground where it used to be. “He went into town with an assessor,” Bumbum said in his weird Nigerian accent. “John said he had to get his medications and was leaving on the five o’clock bus. He’ll be back tomorrow.” We gave chase but stopped at the nearest phone realizing that’s what we’d do when we got to town anyway. After about twenty quarters and several dozen wrong numbers, we reached John’s brother, who was surprisingly unimpressed.
    “This is how it always goes,” his brother told us. “John forgets his pills once and then starts thinking he’s better than a pill-needer. Soon enough he’s off the deep end again and can’t be convinced he needs help.” We learned his family had tried to get John into a home many times, and it had only occasionally worked. He told us John would be long gone by now and it would be impossible to find him.
    We drove back to camp stupefied and helpless. When something like this