Why Getting Knocked Out Is Better Than Not Fighting At All

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Excerpted with permission fromHow To Piss In Public: From Teenage Rebellion to the Hangover ofAdulthood by GavinMcInnes.Freelance writing and making funny commercials is exactly what you’d expect it tobe but working in TV is bizarre. Networks commission hundreds of pilots a year for bigmoney, but for every eighty pilots they have written, only one will make it to air, andeven then it will probably be canceled after a few episodes. It’s an entire industrywhere people are creating content for the garbage. I’m developing a show with FXright now called Trim about three straight guys who become hairdressers to get laid. Theodds are about 100 percent it will never see the light of day but that’s just thenature of the beast. Some think it’s great. I know writers here in New York whodon’t even want their shows to get picked up because they don’t want to moveto L.A. I’m not like that. I’m too much of an attention whore to let things gounnoticed.For example, I did a pilot for Al Gore’s network,Current TV, called The Immersionist. The pitch was, I wouldn’t just go andhang out with a group of people, I’d immerse myself in their lifestyle the wayGeorge Orwell did in Down and Out in Paris and London or Barbara Ehrenreich didin Nickel and Dimed. We picked a biker gang in Oakland called the East Bay Ratsas our first “tribe,” and I flew out there to go live withthem.They call themselves the Rats because they live in acrackhead slum and their motorbikes were dirty pieces of sh*t made from scrapmetal. Against all odds, I managed to ingratiate myself with the group andalmost convinced their president, Trevor, to make me a Rat. Pretending to be in amotorcycle gang is fun as sh*t. We destroyed a car with sledgehammers and then hitched itto a tow truck and rode it around the neighborhood. We crashed motorbikes and racedtricycles down a mountain at neck-breaking speeds. And we fought.The East Bay Rats have a boxing ring in the backyard of their clubhouse and insist everymember fight. When they asked me if I knew how to fight, I mentioned years of boxingexperience, so they brought in a pro MMA fighter named Meathead Eric. He was a bald Asiankid with arms that looked like they were hiding bowling balls and shoulders as wide as anox. He was nervous before he saw me but when I walked into the room with my shirt off, hesmiled and started bobbing back and forth on the balls of his feet in anticipation. Iwasn’t even remotely nervous because I had a plan. I was also a bit drunk.One of the trainers at Church Street was the reigning IBF ContinentalAfrica cruiserweight champion. He calls himself Jaffa “the AfricanAssassin” Ballogou and yells sh*t like, “I AM A REAL MAN,”in the changing room as his penis swings around like a rubber snake in a Darth Vaderhelmet. We would spar occasionally and got to be such good pals, he let me in on a secrettrick that wins any fight in the world.The trick involvesstanding perfectly still and acting like you’re ready to receive a good right to thehead. As the right comes at you, you immediately drop to your knees and nail the guy inthe stomach. As he doubles over in pain, rise up off the mat like a phoenix and knock himout with a super uppercut to the chin. Bang. He’s out. Then the crowd cheers andgirls start excreting juices. It never fails, but Ballogou told me I could use his blackmagic only as a last resort.The referee snapped me out of myBallogou flashback and reminded me I was in the ring with a monster. We were the firstfight of the evening. The referee introduced me as Sissy La La due to myless-than fearsome presence, while Meathead Eric was allowed to stick to his real name. Asthe bell rang for the first round, the bikers chanted, “Sissy La La,” againand again.We sized each other up for the first round. We eachthrew a few loose jabs to the head to see how fast the other guy was. It became clear veryquickly that this guy was a fighter jet and I was a horse-drawn carriage. He was anenergized cat playing with an alcoholic mouse. I hit him in the face a few times and heaccepted each blow as if it was a breath mint. I’m surprised he didn’t saythanks.When the uneventful first round ended, I went back to mycorner and sat on a stool while nobody gave me a pep talk and told me what his weaknesseswere. I looked around the backyard and it dawned on me that there were no paramedics. Ithought, “What if things go bad?” I was starting to get nervous. “Sh*t,we’re in Oakland. We’d be lucky if 911 garnered any response fromanyone. This could be my last night on earth. F*ck. What about mykids?” Continue Reading

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