I don't know why I'm so surprised by this, but VICE Magazine co-creator Gavin McInnes's memoir, How to Piss in Public, is fucking terrible. It's just a bunch of anecdotes about McInnes doing a lot of cocaine and having sex with women, with a few perfunctory references to VICE's "fearless gonzo journalism" thrown in every so often. And he says lots of "edgy" things, because he's Gavin McInnes:
There were homos in World War II? I thought the Village People invented fags and then they all died in the eighties.
[Some women McInnes fucked] were just colostomy bags for my cum. I couldn't imagine life without pussy. When I think of a guy buying a blow-up doll not as a joke, it makes me want to cry.
...after flirting with her for about two minutes, I noticed she had no panties on and she had moisture dripping down her leg like a horny teardrop. I'm not kidding. That's how much of a filthy whore she was.
It's pretty much all like that. McInnes writes like Tucker Max, but he's more insufferable than Tucker Max, because he somehow believes he actually contributes something to society. He recounts a bunch of parties and name-drops a bunch of celebrities. And then he gets older and he gets married (his friends dressed up as members of the Ku Klux Klan for his bachelor party, for purposes of edginess) and has kids, and then the end of the book is weighted down with a bunch of bullshit middle-aged "I'm so much wiser now, but I had a whole lot of fun when I was a kid" reminiscing. It's just as cliched as a hastily produced rock star's autobiography, only instead of rock and roll, it's mostly about the breakneck world of magazine publishing. This shit would be funny, if it weren't so pathetic.