Free How to Piss in Public by Gavin McInnes Page B

happens, you wonder if your input made things worse. I was sad I hadn’t handled it better, but I was also kind of relieved I no longer had to work with the shovel-swinging alien astrophysicist who spoke to God and made atheist classical guitar operas about a German nihilist who kills a puppy that has a poster of Moses in his doghouse.

Hey, Dude, Where’s My Nose? (1992)
    I was twenty-two in 1992 and my look was mostly composed of dirt. I was living in Montreal but went back to Kanata regularly to visit my family. I had also started a new band called Leatherassbuttfuk with a fat guy called Bullshitter Shane.
    After an evening of visiting our respective folks, we went for a beer in downtown Ottawa. I had on rubber boots, a few homeless-man dreads that were just clumps of tangled hair, and a jacket with a hole in the back that was bigger than the jacket. Shane wore a soiled baseball hat, an old leather jacket he stole from a dead skinhead (yes, Geoff), and boots with holes in the toes. People called him Bullshitter Shane because he could talk his way into any job or woman’s pants, or in this case, band. He was playing “not guitar,” which meant he’d furiously shake the strings back and forth to play or just drag the guitar along the stage. Whenever Shane needed money he’d shave his beard and lie his way into a waiter job that paid hundreds of dollars a night. Then he’d spend it all on his friends, get laid, and go back to a life of poverty.
    On this particular evening we were with a preppy contrarian namedJeff who rebelled against our rebellion by shunning our filthy ways just to spite us. While we were in rags, he wore suits and ties and even occasionally tried to pull off an ascot, which isn’t really possible. It’s like wearing a monocle. He’d recently had his entire mouth wired shut after playing devil’s advocate to the wrong guy in the wrong bar and receiving a series of skull-shattering knuckle sandwiches that left him speechless.
    Ottawa is on Quebec’s border, which is like Salt Lake City playing footsie with Las Vegas. Where our town shut down around midnight, the French province over the bridge had bars that never shut and girls’ legs that did the same. You didn’t go out drinking in Ottawa without ending the night in the town of Hull half a mile away. I had borrowed my parents’ car and on our way into a parking lot to make the trip over the bridge, a stocky jock wearing his school’s sweater yelled, “Ottawa trash!” He was standing next to a customized pickup truck filled with other sports enthusiasts in finely marbled shape like a bunch of testosterone-fueled dunce statues. I laughed it off. I don’t think Shane even heard it. But Jeff decided it would be prudent to respond. “Ooooh, I’m s-o-o-o scared,” Jeff said through his wired jaw, so it sounded more like, “Vvvvh, I’m sch-o-o-o schared.” Back at the bar, Jeff had used that same strange accent to tell us how lucky he was to have a jaw at all. He said it took the surgeons thirteen hours to rebuild, and if it suffered any kind of trauma again he would basically have no face. Then again, if he had had no face, he wouldn’t have had a mouth, and we wouldn’t have been in this situation.
    As his blockheaded football friends climbed out of the truck, the buffed-out heckler stormed us. Shane and I put Jeff behind us and prepared for what was sure to be a pretty serious beating. It was.
    “YOU CHALLENGING ME!?” the jock yelled up into Shane’s face before adding, “YOU CHALLENGING ME!?” Shane exhaled a tired sigh, turned his hat backward, and began to roll up his sleeves. Apparently beating up jocks is tedious work. Before I could blink, the jock extinguished Shane with a cobra-fast punch that sent him crumpling to the ground like a deflated balloon. All the other frat boys were starting to surround us, and I started farting uncontrollably. Shaneregained consciousness fairly quickly but was only able to make it up to