Ed. Note 2019: I want to make it clear that the essay, below, that McInnes wrote for us as part of our “The Most Fucked Up Thing I’ve Ever Seen” series was done years before his involvement with the loathesome alt-right white supremacist group the Proud Boys. In 2019, however, I would never provide him or any other hatemonger with a public forum – which is not censorship, but rather, an editorial call. (In similar fashion, had he submitted something back then that discussed topics similar to the Proud Boys’ ideology, I would have simply rejected it on the grounds that it was not relevant editorial content for Blurt.) The reason, however, that I haven’t just taken the easiest path and simply deleted the story now, is that after-the-fact censorship is, at the very least, very problematic for anyone who believes in the First Amendment, and as a journalist, I firmly believe in freedom of speech. And I’m also uncomfortable with so-called “cancel culture.” So to anyone doing a search on McInnes who lands on this page, please understand that we in no way support or condone McInnes, the Proud Boys, and white supremacism. But I do believe in maintaining as complete an archival record for Blurt as possible – the good, the bad, and the ugly.
New waver raped by fly, gets pregnant…
BY GAVIN McINNES
That’s Robert on the left. I have a place in Costa Rica that’s had various caretakers over the years. My favorite would have to be a funny little British man named Robert Dean. He was best known as guitarist of the new romantic band Japan but he also played with everyone from Sinead O’Connor to Gary Numan. I loved to get drunk with him and hear his amazing rock stories like when Gary Numan insisted his brother join the band and fake play the saxaphone or the time Numan got scurvy on tour after exclusively eating McDonald’s plain hamburgers every single day. Robert saw the Sonics play when they first started and even went to a Beatles concert when he was 12. I could talk to that guy for days. Anyway, after Japan peaked and played the Budokan, Robert looked down and realized he had become a total cokehead with zero grasp of reality. Not one for half measures, he chucked that entire life into the toilet and moved to Montezuma where he became a world-renowned bird expert almost over night. The dude is extreme. Bird watchers write down every bird they see and try to outdo each other by discovering rarer and rare birds. Robert decided he was going to outdo them all by spotting a keel-billed motmot. This required lying motionless in a swamp for 24 hours and staring at the same tree with binoculars. It worked. He called whatever Bird Society you call and after tough questions like, “Are you sure it wasn’t a blue crowned motmot?” Robert Dean was in the history books as one of the few people to see the “electron carinatum” in it’s (ever decreasing) natural habitat. There was only one problem. While he was sitting in that festering bog, a fucking botfly laid eggs in his forehead. The botfly is one of the most disgusting creatures imaginable and it reproduces by sneaking eggs on to a mammal’s skin (usually cattle) until a larva gets strong enough to crawl into a pore. Are you puking yet? The larvae then lives there for about a month eating the fat around it and getting strong enough to turn into a bug and come out the same hole it came in. When Robert came back and explained to me what the lump on his forehead was I screamed so loud the jungle exploded with scared birds. I was fucking hysterical. “How are you standing there telling me this?” I yelled incredulously. “If I had a fly fetus in my head I would carve it out immediately and then have 10,000 showers.” Seriously, can you imagine there was an insect larva under your skin right now? You would bite it out without hesitation. Robert however, was nonplussed. “I don’t really notice it” he shrugged. The only time he remembered he was harboring a motherfucking infant in his head was when it would move around every few hours. He’d hold his head and wince for a second and then happily move on. “Robert!” I’d stammer, “It hurts because it just ate the area it was in and it’s moving over to a new spot. You are being eaten by a parasite you asshole. Do something!” I don’t know if he was just enjoying seeing me squirm or he enjoyed feeling his own head squirm but I was determined to solve this revolting problem. My girlfriend was coming in a few days and I knew I wasn’t going to get laid if my friends were pregnant with insects. I sat him down at the local bar and after a few Tequilas, broke it down. “Robert” I told him calmly, “Do you realize, if you let this thing incubate and eventually fly out of your head, YOU WILL BE ITS MOTHER!?” This gave him pause, thank God. “Your progeny on this earth will be a HAIRY FUCKING FLY!” I added. While this tiny moment of sanity gripped my friend, I got a local farmer to convince him to suffocate the thing by covering the whole area with Vaseline – that’s what farmers do to their cows. “All right, why not?” Robert conceded like I was suggesting he give Diet Coke a whirl. This is when things got really gross. Robert went to bed with a big blob of Vaseline on his head and woke up with a dead abortion hanging out of his forehead (I just gagged remembering this). The larva had tried to make a break for it but suffocated halfway out of Robert’s head. It was huge and fluorescent pink with thick, black, coarse hairs jutting out of its back and it made me do hollering dry heaves that went, “HwooooACH! Huuuh. Huuuh. Whoooo. WuuuuuACH!” As I stumbled around the room trying to not faint, Robert smiled and pulled the larva out. It made a quiet “schlooop” sound that was so gut-wrenchingly nauseating, I ran out to the lawn and vomited on the grass. Then, without looking back, I ran from the house like it was incredibly haunted and didn’t come back until very late that night. The next morning I got in the shower and was beyond horrified to discover Robert’s dead son lying on the floor. I lept out and ran over to him completely naked and soaking wet with my eyes bulging out of my head. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” I asked. “How could you not BURN that thing? It’s lying on the shower floor. What were you thinking?” Robert didn’t understand what I was so freaked out about and answered the question totally literally. “I don’t know” he said casually, “When I saw it, I looked down and just thought, ‘There you are. You’re there.’” I swear that’s what he said, “There you are. You’re there.” I exhaled, shook my head and got a towel. Then I opened a beer and went out to the porch to try and digest the fact that I had an alien living in my house. I have met a lot of eccentrics over the years but Robert’s botfly apathy is something I will never even begin to comprehend. Soon after this, he moved to the nearby town of Monteverde because it was better for bird watching. The last I heard he got into body building and had become gigantic. Like I said, the dude is extreme. Gavin McInnes’ new photo book Street Boners: 1,764 Hipster Fashion Jokes is in stores May 27th and can be ordered here.
Gavin McInnes is the
co-founder of Vice magazine and
author of the publication’s extremely popular The Vice Guide to Eating
Pussy and The Vice Guide to Anal Sex.
He subsequently started the Street
Carnage company. You can track his ongoing contributions to popular culture at
the Street Carnage site (hint: fast forward to his “Hating Hipsters” section)
as well as his YouTube channel.