That’s right. The Shagman himself is taking the Fourth off to hit up the Lexus-ridden streets of Jackson Hole, Wyoming. So lock your fake-breasted trophy wives inside your million-dollar mountain-view condos, because there’s a whole lotta pimpin’ about to do down.

The trip starts on Friday at the ungodly hour of five in the manana, and then the entourage snakes its way down from the BOI through six hours of winding roads.

I’m excited. I’m hearing good news about the hot bitches there. Some huge tetons down there, or so they say.

So if you see a brotha speeding down a (beginner) bike trail at a white-knuckle 0.4 mph brake-fest, wearing every possible safety gear possible plus four, wave hello. Cause it’s gonna be this dude.

And if I tell you to fuck off while I try and concentrate on the downhill path at said brain-splintering pace, don’t take it personally.

Bitch.

Ha! So fear not, The Dick returns to regularly scheduled programming next week.

In the meantime, there’s some Tetons that need some man-handlin’.

By Robert Shagwell | Jun 30, 2004 | Permalink |

Let us pray.

As I lay me down to sleep,
I pray for a woman, who’s very cheap.
One who’s sexy, blonde and long.
Who notices that she’s mostly wrong.
One who sucks and doesn’t speak.
And promises to do so, once a week.
I pray that she is very randy,
‘Cause one like that would come in handy.
Opens her leg and lies on the floor,
And once I’m done, she begs for more.
Oh, send me a woman who will not play with my mind.
Who knows what she wants and that’s lots from behind!
One who’ll make love till my body’s a twitchin’
And brings me a beer when she comes from the kitchen!

I pray that she’ll last right up to the end,
And would never complain when I do her best friend.
Thanks in advance, and you know I can’t wait,
so I’ll screw all the rest ‘cause it’s never too late.

Amen.

Raymi | Ken Cowan | Slower.net

By Robert Shagwell | Jun 30, 2004 | Permalink |

Now I know it’s in every man’s best interest to decipher the seemingly innocent coded messages our bitches give us every day. Without knowing how to properly interpret and infer the correct meaning out of the strange things women say and test you with, you ain’t goin’ nowhere in the path to pimpingness.

“Do I Look Fat?"™

This one’s a bitch. A real bitch. Those that have experienced the burning agony that is this question know full well what I’m talking about. The man, being wired the way he is, and being the man he was created to be, is thinking in his head - and very well should be, I might add - damn, girl, you look like you’ve gained just a couple, but let’s stop it before it gets outta control. Put the ice cream down, please. Under no circumstances should you ever say this, even to the fattest bitch you wake up in the morning with. Your soul will be castrated for eternity.

Bitches are pigs. Take them to a nice restaurant, and they’ll order a house salad and claim they’re “getting full", but when they go out with their girlfriends (depending on the sum of the anorexia quotient), the girls either pig the fuck out, or eat a quarter of the food that is presented to them before said “getting full". All in the hopes that other people don’t think they’re pigs. Watch them at home, though, and you’ll see the real swine come out. Depressed bitches are the worst, because they have no other outlet to express their problems. Then they come to you and ask you if you think they’ve gained weight.

So what the fuck is she really asking, Dick? Well, for starters, how about, “I’m feeling insecure about how I look, so tell me something reassuring". Do not under any circumstances even think about telling the bitch the truth. Ever. No matter if she’s the fattest hoe you’ve ever gotten your hands on (congrats!). If she’s looking the same weight as before, like 99.99% of the time, just tell her she looks fantastic and she’s just acting silly, in a nice, light tone.

But if the bitch really has gained a fifth, it’s time to tell her something. Gently. Like a virgin. Tell her maybe she’s gained a pound or two (not any more, for the Holy Sovereign Lord God in Heaven’s sake!), and suggest you start going to the gym together. Tone is everything. With a gentle, sweet tone, it’ll work. What I like to call the Gentle, Understanding Pimp tone. It’s absolutely necessary that you do not tell the bitch off with something like, “bitch, yo fat ass is lookin bigger than two double-parked yellow Volkswagens". That’s the Firm, No-Bullshit Pimp tone. But that one’s for another day. There’s a time and a place to put a bitch in her proper time and place.

“Which One Of My Friends Would You Go Out With?” ™

Again, don’t be fooled by this seemingly innocent cocktrap. She of course only means if you weren’t going out with her. But then, again, is she? Odd. Here’s your chance to let her know that her friend Shauna’s one fine-lookin bitch. God, that tight ass, the long, graceful legs, the beautiful, shiny long hair. You know, everything your bitch ain’t got. Maybe she’ll get the clue. Right?

Heeeeyll no. Unless you don’t care. Then go right on ahead, brotha. It’s your game, and someone’s gotta lose. It’ll just end up being yo’ ass.

Lying is bad. Our mommas spanked our asses good to teach us that. That’s why the Good God On High created the Tried and Tested White Lie. How the hell do you think Adam procreated with Eve? God saw what a bitch Eve was, and said my boy Adam ain’t ever gonna get some play and populate my planet if I don’t help his ass out. If you don’t wanna end up apologizing for days to your bitch, do yourself a favor and use the Tried and Tested White Lie. Don’t reveal your hidden crush. Tell her what she wants to hear, and use your Pimp Skillz to finagle the conversation back around to her, and move in to put the action behind your words. The bedroom will heat up pretty quick, young Pimpowan.

“I Don’t Care If You Go To A Strip Club” ™

Ah, the sweet, sweet sound that just escaped her lips. Guys, we’ll always love to look at hot bitches, especially ones that are dancing for us, nearly naked and not playing any mind games with us. and that it really has nothing to do with them at all. We don’t mean anything bad by it, baby. It’s just the way we’re wired. You know. Circuits. And shit.

Nope, not going anywhere with that one. What she’s really saying: Not only can I not believe that you enjoy watching nearly naked gyrating skanks, but I am infuriated when you go to strip joints! If you really cared about me, you wouldn’t even think about ever going to one again! They take it as a personal insult if you go. They’re too insecure to ever tell your ass directly, so they use reverse psychology, which of course never really works. By telling you that they don’t really give a shit, they’re hoping that you’ll turn around and give her the Correct Response: “Baby, why would I need to go to a filthy strip joint when I have all the woman I could possibly ever want to look at right now in front of me?”

So what to do next time, playa? Take this statement with a grain of salt and don’t get too excited. Don’t go to a strip joint that night, or even the next night. But when you do decide to get down with some big-titted wonder-bitches and she tries to give you shit about it, gently remind her about what she said. She won’t be able to say a word.

“Where Is This Relationship Going?” ™

First of all, bitches never ask this question if they’re not digging you. A lot. So she’s putting the pressure on you, and putting you on the spot. Put on your Smooth, Charming Pimp tone and turn the tables on the bitch. When she says: “I want to know if I’m wasting my time here. Are you dating anyone else?” You can say: “Baby, if you’re with me there’s no way you could be wasting your time.” Then when she says: “Listen, I want to know how you feel.” Say: “Honey, you’ve already hugged me, you know how I feel.”

It’s sad but true: bitches don’t always say what they mean. So don’t fall prey to their traps. Try to see through their jibber jabber as soon as it comes up, and avoid getting into some deep, deep shit.

Remember, playas: If you keep your bitch on her toes, she’ll always come back beggin for more.

Or was that her knees?

Chokey Chicken | Anti | Dick Chaney: “Fuck Yourself”

By Robert Shagwell | Jun 27, 2004 | Permalink |

Once, during an extended stay to Sao Paulo, Brazil, I had an experience so controversial I consider it a blessing it hasn’t scarred this brotha for life.

After a night spent off the heezay at the hottest clubs in town, my cousin Thiago, my little bro and I were on our drive back to his pad. If there’s another compliment I can give to Brazil, and I definitely don’t think there will ever be enough, is that the bars don’t close until every last man or woman has left the building. No 2am rules or all that shit. So it’s close to half-past four in the AM, fresh out from a club, and we’re driving back along the winding roads of Sao Paulo in what seems to be the only time in the day that the streets aren’t crowded sickeningly with traffic. Although there was more traffic in the middle of the night than I see here at home during the daytime, it was definitely a sight to behold. With 17 million citizens, and an even more crooked, crowded, convoluted street and highway system, Sao Paulo commuting reaches the adrenaline-pumping levels of of a rollercoaster ride.

If you can imagine driving along your daily expressway or highway, shrink the lanes by a foot or two until your side mirrors are never more than ten inches apart, and add a healthy dose of extra speed, and a clutch of redundant side-streets and shitty highway planning, and you’ll get an idea of what it’s like driving at any time from six in the AM till about nine or ten at night. Driving’s just a bitch at any time there’s light out. Period.

Moreover, if you’re not careful, you could easily kill one or four motorpedists if you’re not constantly checking your mirrors. The white lines separating lanes they have called their “express lane". These pizza delivery boys, urban couriers, and errand boys (read: suicidal motormaniacs) somehow squeeze through the ten inch gaps between mirrors at an extra ten kilometers per hour (or is that centipedes?). You can tell when they’ve eaten a mirror before, because they’re missing fingers. And if you lane change and you don’t check your shit, chances are you’ll run one over. They all form a sort of underground scooter mafia, and may the Holy Lord have mercy upon your soul when they witness you perform a two-tire bunnyhop over the kid’s head with your Renault. Cause they’ll chase your ass across town, pull you out of your car, and beat your ass to death right on the curb. I shit you not. And the bystanders lean over and tell each other, poor fucker ran a motorbiker over.

Back to four thirty in the madrugada. After witnessing and dancing with some crazy fresh Brazilian goddesses all night, and not knowing the language very well, I had me no lady companion to take home. I know, I know, not very like old Dick, but sometimes a man just ain’t in his element, naw mean? Bumpin’ and grindin’ south of the border is considered rude, and pretty tasteless. There’s some pretty fresh dance moves they got down there. It’s like country line dancing, except that the music doesn’t suck, each song has its own dance, the Brazilian goddesses are the mythical sum of beautiful faces and perfect, tan, fit bodies, and furthermore, the moves are downright funktastic and sexy. So it’s nothing like country dancing.

So Lil’ Dick’s feeling antsy, and I spit out the only logical course of action left to do: where da hookers at? He looks at me with a face and says, going back home at this time of the morning, man. Fuck that, there’s gotta be some hoes about this bitch. So with a little soul-searching, my cuz Thiago flips a biatch and off we go happily bumping down the road violently evading crater-sized potholes towards the worst neighborhoods in town.

We ain’t gonna find much, I’m telling you now, man. Daz alright, keep your eyes peeled. How much you think we can get a girl to climb in here with us for? Fifty reals (read: 20 bucks). Hellsyea!

…which immediately turned into an awkward silence as we passed our first batch of transvestites.

The “ladies” who hadn’t been picked up because they offer a quite a bit more than you care to bargain for, naw mean? Corner after corner, we see burly, hairy legs, broad shoulders, and five-oclock shadows. In miniskirts.
If there was one time the whole night where we could hear each other swallow in the car, this would have been it. Well, almost.

We circle the street once more trying to discern any real ladies among the throng of low-pitched call-outs to our car, but it wasn’t any use. Let’s just go, man.

I got an idea. Hold on. Screech. And we’re in the other lane heading off towards another red light district, although this one was probably going to be like a wildcard.

Tranny. Tranny. Tranny. Same old, same old, same ol– holy shit what was that? TURN AROUND. Some blonde bitch flashed us her huge-ass boobs! And they were real! Turn around, before some other lucky car picks her ass up before us! Go go go go!

And as cool as we could be, we roll to a stop next to the hottie fitted in this tight white number. Our blinkers were flashing. Thiago automatically lowered my passenger window. And she struts up and leans into my window, mouthful of gum, and says:

How you boys doin tonight. Right about the time I start noticing the stubble growing around the huge jugular.

My little bro had been hangin out in the back, and he starts choking on his gum. Coughing, with intermittent bursts of restrained laughter. And here I am, trying to act as cool as a brotha can while unwillingly soliciting a transvestite prostitute who’s four inches away from my shit in a language I suck at in a country I’m foreign to at a moment I wish I could just curl up and go to my happy place. And Thiago, being the smartass he is, asks him how much for a ride.

He looks and scopes out the the three of us, and I could hear by brother’s nerves tighten. Fuck you too, man. 40 reals, for you sexy boys.

Five bucks each for a good time, that ain’t bad, right? Seriously, what the fuck, Thiago? Heeeyll no. So I sit still acting out like I’m pondering the question deeply, as if my main concern right then was trying not to sucka punch that dude in the grill and take off. And Thiago, sitting happy and comfortably four feet away from the dude, starts pleasantly asking him all sorts of personal questions and chatting the dude up to make me start feeling really uncomfortable, while here I am looking STRAIGHT AHEAD four inches away from his jugular, and I can honestly say I’ve never looked as straight ahead in my entire life as that moment. And probably never will again, either. Checkin my shit out, calling me big boy. The cheap perfume sticking to my clothes. This shouldn’t be happening to me right now. Oh God.

I swallowed down my last morsel of sanity, and nervously whispered in English over to Thiago. Let’s go, man. Let’s go.

And with that I yelled punch it!, slammed the stick into first, and we smoked our tires off the tranny Starsky-style as he yelled and shook his muscular arms in anger in our rearview.

Fuck. It was a pretty intensely silent ride back home.

I don’t know, Thiago smiled, in his smug retrospective tone. The dude coulda probably sucked a golfball through a garden hose, man. The backseat produced a chuckle.

Not funny, man.

Wanna look for some more hookers?

I think I’ll pass. Fucker.

Gorillamask | ChokeyChicken | Dooce

By Robert Shagwell | Jun 23, 2004 | Permalink |

There’s a quaint little town lovingly nestled between the foothills of the Sawtooths and the great Snake River Basin. A quiet city, really. Not much goes on here most of the time. It’s a great place to raise a family, at least that’s what all my bitches tell me. But I dodge that subject better than ole Slick Willy. The town I like to home, where I’ve come to relax and spend the rest of my days.

The City of Boise.

About half the population is mormon, the other half is pretty cool. The City of Trees was founded in 1863 when gold was discovered to the northeast about thirty miles away, and a few smart folks decided it was a better idea to sell fruits and vegetables to the other crazy miners instead of working the placers themselves. Before long, they had diverted water from the Boise River to irrigate their orchards and farms, and Idaho’s newest and fastest-growing city had sprouted.

There’s plenty of stuff out here, but you gotta love being outdoors for most of it. There’s 478 restaurants, elegant subdivisions lining nine perfectly manicured golf courses, 20 Albertson’s stores, wakeboarding at 3 lakes less than an hour away, snowboarding 30 minutes away, and more hot springs and camping spots and fishing holes and outdoor-you-name-its than you can imagine. And the potatos are one big fucking lie. Like Lil’ Dick, they’re bigger than the competition, but unlike Lil’ Dick, they’re overrated. Unfortunately, the end of time will still see God checking to see if that potato state is still chillin’. There’s even a potato entrepreneur, who has amassed - and I’m not shitting you here folks - billions of dollars selling his potatos to Fattie McDonalds across the nation to make fries. His mansion overlooks the city on a big hill. Again, I’m not shitting you.

Boise’s the capital city, and therefore the commercial hub for many businesses: Boise Cascade, Micron Technology, Albertson’s, J.R. Simplot Company (the fucking 1941 potato man himself), and Washington Group International (the new name for Morrison-Knudsen Company). The Idaho Candy Company produces the world famous Spud Bar here, and Hewlett-Packard produces world-famous printers. Po’ old Boise’s rural roots are being sweated by the high-tech invasion. And yet through the thick of it all, the Boise River meanders its way through the center of the city, like a lazy winding branch giving life to thousands upon thousands of trees lined along its banks. Which brings me to my next point.

The Greenbelt. Boise’s recreation hub, the Boise River and Greenbelt links the downtown area and a string of parks for fishing, in-line skating, biking, or picnicking. People play and exercise there, picnic there, study there, propose and get married there, have festivals there, embark and debark from float trips down the river there, listen to music at the bandshell there, watch for bald eagles there, go to the zoo there, feed the ducks there, watch Shakespeare plays there (under the stars), bike to work there among the towering trees, lush growth and abundant wildlife. Stretching for 22.5 miles, the Greenbelt is perfectly paved every year, and is one of the best places to find some hot fitness-minded bitches on those oh-so-sexy rollerblades and tights. Dayumn!

The girls here are hotter than any other place I’ve ever seen. I shit you not, my dear chitlands. Blonde or brunette, blonde or latina, blonde or skinny, they’re all here. In tight, white summer pants.

The weather’s not too hot, but not too cold, neither. It only rains or snows 11 inches each year, and we really do experience four seasons. You can find us in shorts for three of them. The summers rarely dip above the cent mark, but the low humidity makes it tolerable. Summer evenings such as this one are wonderful, and you can always smell a neighbor gettin’ his grill on.

And we’re getting more neighbors every day. This city’s going through some real-life growth spurts, as word is spreading on repeated lists of best places to live. Hell, people are even still nice and polite to each other, and hospitable to everybody (except Californians). Pretty soon it’s going to get filled with fat immigrants, smog, and crime. But in the end, whatchagonnado?

That’s right. Live in a van down by the river. Bitch.

By Robert Shagwell | Jun 23, 2004 | Permalink |

The hell’s a man to do?

Grocery shopping has its perks. Besides getting a strange sort of satisfaction whipping out big bucks for frozen snack food and grits even yo mama would be proud of eating, the supermarket is a place often frequented by some lovely young ladies. In white pants.

Asking to see your ID.

Because she’s the bangin brunette bee-ah with a bubble butt at the 20 item-or-less checkout line, and because nobody in their right mind should have anything on the back of their plastic besides see ID. She moves with such fluidity. Grace and efficiency, defined. Her slender hands flowing over my food, typing her cashier, and holding on to my card in her hand as she’s giving it back, just a split-second longer than necessary. That fleeting moment where I catch her looking, and her eyes avert back to the screen.

Shit. I mean, I caught her peepin my shit. There’s people behind me, waiting for their turn, and here she is, asking me to sign the receipt desperately trying to straighten the edge of her lip curled up in a smile. But I knew it was coming, and it was old news by the time she tried focusing on the receipt I was signing. I got her number, bagged my shit up, and thanked her. I left the biggest hater audience I’ve ever seen behind me.

I get sick of the looks a brotha gets when I do my thing, me being a middle-aged man and all. Hell, my first gray hairs started popping up just last year. I know what I like, I know what I want, and I’m not ashamed to fuck it and go do it. Meanwhile, all these other guys get yellow with envy. You know, the guys that start talking shit as soon as you leave. When really, they’re just overgrown pussies to begin with. If I go up to a bitch, lay my charisma down and do my thing, and she ends up passing, her loss. She’s the one missing out on a good time, not me. There’s plenty of better girls out there that deserve your precious time and attention, naw mean? Rejection’s part of the game, and this gentleman’s got it under control.

So I took her out to some Thai, and we watched a little TV while she ran those fingers across my chest as she stared up with those eyes.

The hell’s a man to do?

Cook her up some grits, that’s what.

| Tony Pierce | Tyranny | The Deputy |

By Robert Shagwell | Jun 21, 2004 | Permalink |

Let’s see, where do I start. I know. Let’s start with a little about me, Dick Shagwell. The man behind the words. The man behind the scene. The man behind your woman.

Thanks to Deez and my man LB, I got my own website up now. Now that I’m semi-retired, I can finally afford to take some time and do things that I’ve wanted to do. I was afraid of the whole “internet” thing for a while, what with those illicit pictures floating around of me. With your woman. But I divigate.

Who am I? What am I doing here? And why the fuck do I have my own website now? You bitches are in trouble now. Deez was telling me about what a wealth of stories I always seem to have.
Publish them, he said. You know, on the internet. It’s cheaper than getting a book deal or sucking Carson’s tiny penis for a MTV News feature. So I agreed. Now that I’m semi-retired, can afford it, and can’t turn down my man Deez, I’m going to tell you my stories. I don’t give a fuck if you don’t like them. But you will. I don’t give a fuck if you don’t read them. Cause you will.
And I ain’t definitely giving a proper goat’s fuck if you don’t care. Cause you shouldn’t.

But you will anyway.

So call me Dick, or Robert if it makes you more comfortable. Or Big Dick. Hell, call me Lil’ Dick if you’re not feeling “up to par", naw mean? Email me with concerns, with your pimping stories, and I’ll give you a lesson or two on what Old Man Dick has learned in his years. Cause if there’s anything my man Mr. Marvin Gaye has taught me, it’s how to love myself. No, a real man doesn’t touch himself, you prepubescent shaft-polishing pussies. Women love a man who knows how to love himself. A man who knows who he is, and knows where he wants to be in life. Women love a man with confidence.

And, that’s one of the reasons I’m here. To build your confidence. Cause Lord Jesus Almighty in Heaven knows I got more confidence than Shaq going into the finals. I’m your man. I’ll hook you bitches up with a slice of my life, so you can see what it’s like living in the size 13.5 shoes of your man Dick Shagwell.

I’ma learn ya good, son.

So sit back, relax, dust off and peep your pappy’s old Marvin Gaye records. You pussy-whipped Pintos are in for a treat. And start calling UPS.

Cause you definitely can’t handle a package this big.

By Robert Shagwell | Jun 11, 2004 | Permalink |