Gavin McInnes is the Proud Boys founder. He’s the host of his own show. More than that he’s an overall cunning, creative and eccentric badass – who to me, has come across as a guy who doesn’t allow stability to become stagnant. He’s a married dude, who is actively trying out new ways to seduce his wife and if you look at his Instagram you’ll know by seeing his cartoon character pancakes, even making his kids’ breakfast never seems to get old. Whatever comes his way, he’s ready to reinvent an approach to conquer it. What I’m about to tell you is a first-hand account of the Proudest Boy we know, exhibiting his everyday practice of walking the walk.
The Gavin McInnes show I guested on (as Asian Gavin) wraps up and I join Gavin and his head researcher, David Kast on a walk to Chick-Fil-A for lunch. After hitting an ATM we hear someone shout out “Hey It’s Gavin McInnes!”- a good start to our journey.
Onward we went towards our lunch destination. We chat about cucks, libs, ugly women, Japanese teeth, that time when Sarah Silverman told a “pee-pee in my coke” Asian joke that shocked some humorless uptight PC fools. It’s not exactly a short walk but time is flying by as we entertain ourselves with no audience but each other, a refreshing lift of the vague pressure involved with a live streaming show.
Finally, we’re across the street from Chick-Fil-A and it is…FUCKING. PACKED.
We see that the line is wrapped around the corner – it’s so beyond backed up inside, that the people waiting in line are each handed a live chicken to butcher themselves. Employees inside have crumpled up paper bags and cups into the garbage cans and set them on fire. Customers are fighting off homeless men warming their hands to cook their crudely plucked chicken carcasses over the flames. We all see the chaos. Me and Dave head towards the back of the line. An employee extends a live clucking chicken to me and at the moment when I’m reaching out to receive my poultry and paring knife, Gavin decides “fuck that shit” and orders up a round of dirty water hot dogs from the sweaty Muslim’s food cart right beside us.
We’re handed a sopping wet frankfurter atop a bun that by comparison made the dog look bone-dry. A “what’s it even matter in the end?” amount of sauerkraut is thrown carelessly on top and the vendor shoots a stream of spicy brown mustard directly onto his shoes, and the ricochet splatter knocks over a family of pigeons. The amount that bounced off of their beaks onto our hot dogs was enough for us to be content with.
It wasn’t what we set out for.
However, by no means was it a disappointing fall back. All three of us remarked on the delicious simplicity of a NYC frank, and how it was served with the last remaining fumes of life-force that kept that vendor from slashing an artery and bleeding out right on the sidewalk. We could almost taste the final straw on that camel’s back (no pun, the Muzzie actually had a camel with a straw dispenser between its humps). It was like the world telling us, what you think is a ‘Plan B’ is actually a grade A choice… most likely made of grade-D beef, but we ate that mystery meat lovingly, and although I can’t speak for them I assume just like myself, they later shit it out hatefully.
Anyone who waits on a line that long for some Chick-Fil-A isn’t showing determination or patience, they’re showing that they have way too much time on their hands, and they can’t adapt as well as us Proud Boys can. I have to say I was surprised to find out that hot dog was the best damn choice I never had to make. That day I was taught sometimes it’s best to let the little things figure themselves out, and who knows? You might just buy the hot dog that makes a Muzzie kill himself. A priceless lesson learned for me and David Kast…
Yet I recall the look on Gavin’s face was that of a man who knew it all along.
Ryan Katsu Rivera