As you may have been made aware recently, poker is taking the country by storm. Games are sprouting up in basements and garages and dining rooms everywhere (the dining table is actually useful!), and more than ever we see the rise of low ante structured and no-limit games. What does this all mean?

If you see Dick, prepare to win all his money.

Especially in no-limit hold ‘em.

Last night I hooked it up at a brotha’s house, who was hosting a tournament for whoever wanted to come. Unfortunately, we don’t like to fuck around, so the buy-in was a flat $100, and we saw the attendance of some businessmen and other well-to-dos who had no better use for a hun than to throw it away in an entertaining fashion against some long-time players and experts.

But that’s just more easy action for everybody, so I can’t complain. Especially after their third beer.

I’ma be real with y’all: I’m no world-class player. Hell, I’m not even a strong player.

I’ma be even mo’ real witchy’all: I suck. Like Ali’s daughter in the ring sucks. That bad.

The fuck I was doing buying in for a hun evades a brotha, even to this moment. Out of the fourteen of us starting out on the two tables, I went out second. Only because this kid was so balls-out drunk he went all-in on a hand he definitely shouldn’t have (offsuit 10-5? The fuck you doin’ in my pot?). Although he rectified later, I got pretty close, though, didn’t I? with a stupid grin on his face. Close only counts in horseshoes and bangin’ your girlfriend’s sister.

If there’s one piece of advice I can give you bitches about poker, its leave your phone off. You don’t want your bitch calling you at 2 in the moan-ing concerned with regards to your whereabouts. You don’t want to blurt out anything in a drunken stupor. Or even let her know you’re drunk. Hell, you don’t want to exchange a single word whilst your crew crowds around and blurts out obscenities while your bitch is almost in tears “worried about you”.

Plus, you don’t want her to know about the stripper serving drinks.

So, I was gone; went out like a sucka.

I got busted on my last hand when I went all-in on a Queen-Nine ‘o hearts before the flop. Two others called, and I sat back and watched my ass get handed to me on a felt platter.

I flopped the nut straight (8-10-J), in diamonds. Fuuuuck me. The two others got into a huge pot, and another off-suit eight came on Fourth St. As long as another diamond—well, later guys. The three-of-dees came on Fifth, and with four diamonds on the board, all it took was a pocket diamond to break me.

Both those crackas had ‘em at the showdown, and I was out with the fucking worst bad beat of the night.

Sometimes, I hate poker.

But then the stripper gave me a consolatory feel-better lap dance that—quite effectively—lifted my sorrows.

Sometimes, I love strippers.

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 26, 2004 | Permalink |

As you may have read below, I am out of the pad and without any internet. Which is a bitch, because I get all excited about my website and I hate to see it not get updated. As should you, I might add.

So in my time offline, I have concocted a couple of catankerous photo essays for you bitches in the house. Well, that have a house, anyway.

The first one is about beautiful, Scenic Idaho. Lots of pretty gay pictures. I suggest skipping right over that one and heading right on down to:

Old Fogeys. The truth behind the seniors. The lowdown on the slow-downed. The very-at-it’s on the geriatrics. The …ok, I’ll stop. You get the point.

Enjoy sucking whatever little bandwidth you bitches have left me after ravaging my site day in and day out.

And, before I forget: you’re welcome.

Bitches.

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 22, 2004 | Permalink |

Ever had an idea for something so outrageous, so far away from reality, that you actually decided to go with it?

Once, I had scheduled a trip to go down to Mexico for business and pleasure. Two weeks in Guadalajara, and one down in the beautiful Puerto Vallarta to relax. I had told my coworkers and some of my buddies I was going. It was set to be an awesome time.

If you’re not a guy, you won’t understand what shootin’ the shit is. Basically, it consists of exchanging anecdotes, stories, and jokes while continually trying to one-up each other. In essence, anyway.

So we’re shitting bulls, Deez and my man LB and I, and somehow the subject goes off-course. I get this crazy idea and blurt out: I’ll bet you guys $100 bucks I can piss on a Mexican bitch’s face and take a picture of it.

…

Yeah, like that. Silence.

And then they started bustin’ up laughing like there was no dawn tomorrow. Brilliant! he said. Stupendous! they exclaimed.

You’re on, I said.

We set the rules, such as I couldn’t offer more than $20 bucks to the woman, no hookers, and I had to take the picture including my cock and the twenty bill as proof. Midstream.

I understand it’s kind of fucked up, and really sick and twisted in its own malevolently smug kind of way. In no way do I endorse or participate any form of urination on anybody (on a car, maybe). I just don’t get off that way, and I can’t understand anybody that could, either. This was going to be purely for show.

The next morning at work, word had arrived before I had. I had three other sharks placing bets with me, totaling another hun or so. If any of the higher-ups had any idea what was gonna go down, they kept their traps nice and shut about it. And it was on.

The plane landed, and business went as usual. Boring meetings, long conferences, and a clutch of reports to complete. I had asked around on my trips into town where the ghetto parts of Guadalajara were, but they advised against it, as the crime rates are pretty fucked up in those areas. Little did they know what sort of crime I would be committing on an unsuspecting mother trying to feed six children…

Please, stay with me here. I understand it’s fucked up. But I know you’re laughing. Let’s continue.

I bought a Kodak disposable (Fuji film can eat a dick), and headed downtown. After a few passes on a few streets here and there, my balls left me and I lost heart. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it, on a poor woman on her knees in front of me. With sad, puppy eyes. Oh, the conflict! I’d have to do it in Puerto Vallarta.

The next week I arrived in an all-inclusive resort whose name I will conceal as to protect their identity and business. We’ll refer to it as “Piss Palace Two Thousand K". So my bags are in my room, and I’m all ready, and I head to the beach to hit up the waves and sand. Sometimes it’s hard not living next to the ocean. Just the smell of it ushers in a head-rush of feelings, memories, and emotions. It happens to everybody, and it happened to me. Ah, the ocean. I got a margarita with the expected tropical sunbrella and settled down on the beach scoping out some hotties.

Wait. There are no hotties in Mexico.

All the hot ones moved up to the States. How could I be so forgetful? So I sit back and relax, formulating my plan for one of the following evenings.

Three days later, I had it down to a tee (whatever that means). After spending a few days watching the room service ladies through their runs, and speaking to a few of them and their supervisors, I was sure I was getting a pretty good idea of how things worked. All I had to do was find one desperate enough…

A knock came on the door. Twelve minutes behind schedj. Servicio de quartos! came the quaint little voice.

Pase, por favor. Necessito mas toallas limpias. We’d need the towels for something entirely different… MUHAHAHAH!

Please stay with me folks. She entered, and I in essence told her to go about her business while I worked on some papers out on the balcony overlooking the bay. She started to say something, but I put up my finger to her lips and said Shhhh. It’s ok. She gave me a stern look, shrugged her shoulders, and went to work.

Out on the balcony I prepped everything in a last-minute check. Camera? Rewound. Twenty dollar bill? American-style. Balls of steel? Check. (I hope). Spanish phrases memorized? Down pat. We’re go for piss-off, control.

While she was in the bathroom restocking toilet paper and soaps, I slid in there with her. I kept the door open. I easily towered over her by a foot and a half. And she was uuuuugly. Enough to scare the butterflies out of my stomach and straight out my ass. I farted before I had a chance to say something.

You know, one of those nervous farts. I kid you not here, folks.

She stammered to say something polite, like they’re trained to, but I smiled and acted like I just gave her a flower. We both just kinda stood there in the bathroom, while the burnt lentil smell wafted itself from my ass through the bathroom. Both our eyes started watering, I think.

So I repeated the phrases I had looked up (not an easy task, given the context), and I put my twenty in front of her nose. I made sure to sound as professional and reassuring as possible. I looked her right in the eyes while I said it. I meant business.

And then the unimaginable happened.

The following week at work, everybody and their janitor came over to my desk to see if I had failed or succeeded. I got a couple of collect calls from “Goldie Chowers” and “Cara Mojada“. Undoubtedly Deez and my man LB. Everyone was anxious to see if I had done the impossible. To see if I had truly pissed on a bitches face for twenty bucks. And captured it on film.

The picture was proof enough. I walked away with over two hun that day. All it took was a bottle of Tecate poured into one of her disinfectant spray bottles, hidden under my cock while she sprayed herself open-mouthed (the guys loved that little touch) with her favorite beer. And a twenty dollar bill.

And a smile worth a thousand dollars.

Well, two hundred. Suckas.

Virtuosity | Anti | Big Cliché

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 11, 2004 | Permalink |

As is common in any man’s life, there is a time when you have to sit back, reevaluate your life, and ask yourself, what has the Internet done for me? Maybe I should just do away with it. Has my life really improved because of Al Gore’s brainchild?

That, or because the cable company is pulling the plug on me for a while.

The story is this.

Due to a most unfortunate occasion, my roommate has just forfeited his huevos and has become engaged, and must therefore move out on me. In a week. I have called the internet company, the phone company, and the electric company all letting them know we’re moving out of our bachelor pad. Oh, the times.

Unfortunately, you bitches won’t be hearing much from me. Not as regularly, anyway. I will be living in one of my bitches’ houses for a month while I look for another pad to worthy enough to be sanctified with The Dick’s nomer. I will check into the library once every so often and update my site, but only irregularly.

Please email me any ideas, hopes, and best wishes while I get my living “sichy-eyshon” under my thumb. In exchange for free rent for a month, I have promised to return her the favor. Twice a day.

Oh, the life I must live.

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 10, 2004 | Permalink |

Step into a club, a coffee shoppe, a yoga class, hell, anywhere where there’s an abundance of women, and you’ll witness a phenomenon so ultimately important and final in a matter of a split second that you’ll never know what a monumental occurrence just took place.

Shit, dog. I’m here for ya, don’t I tell you that every time? This time around Dick’s got the low-down on what’s going down with the bitches. Just for you insensitive cockchafers. So pull up a chair and you just might learn something.

There’s two things that happen when you look at a woman. Don’t pretend like you’re too good for this shit, because you’re a man, and a man is wired specifically for two things when the eyes make contact with femme fatale. 1) What she would look like naked, and 2) what she would look like in bed. Period. Punto. Période. Am I not right on this? Hold your manhood and gimme a heeeeeyll yea. That’s right.

Women, on the other hand, having their © Fucked-Up Circuits, think three things when their eyes fall on you: 1) Does he look like he has a job?
2) Does he look like he’s got a good job?
3) Does he look like he can hold a job long enough to support my ass for a reasonable amount of time?
Why the fuck do you think you’re getting a 10-point Physical Inspection with Complementary Financial Analysis when you ask a bitch to dance?

Women are good with their eyes. Those sneaky see-holes are trained and conditioned to see what they want to see, without staring or being obvious. Hell, they might even make up their mind about you before they’ve even gotten your attention.

Yea, I know, bullshit, huh? Think about it, though. Any man who puts on pants in the morning notices contours and curves. Tits and tassels. Abs and ass. Bitches, on the other hand, notice form and structure. They also notice men’s eyes, hands, teeth, smile, and class. Women who are more interested in a man’s qualities notice men who are honest, outgoing, confident, and have style, intelligence, a sense of humor, and class. These kind of guys are perceived as likable, friendly and genuinely interested in others. I know, because I am.

Key point, fellas. Bitches use their eyes to communicate interest in a man. Men, on the other hand, will usually avoid eye contact with a bitch they’re into.

That doesn’t mean you perverts can stare or undress bitches with your eyes. If they’re interested, make them melt by looking deeply into their eyes. Fuck that, I ain’t no sassy boy, Dick! Trust me, the man that knows how to use his eyes to let her know he’s possibly interested will fare far better than any fool that looks away, looking like a pre-pubed shy-guy. I know you’ve heard it all before, but you ain’t heard it from me. Yet: The eye contact exchange is critical. Nuclear meltdown, klaxon blaring, imminent danger critical. Don’t be a sucka and lose one of your main advantages.

That said, don’t act a fool and start licking your damn lips or any of that gay shit that movies will lead you to believe makes you an unstoppable Sexy Tiger of Seduction and Doom. Tom Cruise? Eat a dick. Please. Preferably Kilmer’s. Look at her without climaxing in your cords, either. She’ll notice. Promise.

By doing this whole eye-contact thing, you’re achieving two things. First, and most obviously, is that you’re expressing some sort of interest in this bitch. Secondly, you can “observe” and “read” (!) what the bitch is “communicating". Fuck that complicated shit, you say. To which I reply, can you make your bitch’s eyes roll into her head?, I say. Cuz I just did.

Let her break that first gaze, young pimp. Might seem a little off, or uncomfortable ("You got me man thongs?"), but just try it. It works.

Key point numero dos: Most women can tell if a man has cheating eyes, lying eyes, dishonest eyes, married eyes, wandering eyes, or sincere eyes. So get your shit straightened out before you go and do any of this looking shit. Clean your room, do the dishes, confess to the priest, and call mom non-collect. Somehow, the Wiring somehow got extra-sensitive to allow bitches to notice this shit. They can tell if you’re desperate or confident with those mascara-dipped eye-holes of theirs. Just by the way you look at them.

If her gaze goes south, be cool. Don’t stick your hips out or flop your cock around. And don’t start the pneumatic penis-enlarging underwear balloon. Yet. She’s checking out your hands, bro. First, for the wedding band, naturally. Secondly, she’s using a mental ruler and measuring the length from your wrist to the tip of your middle finger. It’s a key length for a woman. You’ll understand later, young pimpowan. Nothing you can do at this point, my man. Except mentally will your fingers to grow a foot longer.

And for Jeremiah’s sake, don’t forget the smile. Obviously, us guys don’t smile all that much, because we’re not fake bitches trying to manipulate everybody with our Evil Ways. Fact: Average looking people who smile are much more appealing than beautiful bitches and handsome men who won’t.

But I’m busy with my Tom Cruise sexy face! you exclaim. Again, refer yourself to Kilmer’s genitalia. This is the wealth of information you’re giving a bitch (whether you like it or not) when you show both rows of those milky whites: I’m charming, optimistic, friendly, expressive with my feelings, likes what I see, and, most importantly, I’m approachable. When we smile, our facial muscles stimulate our nervous system to produce a hormone called cerebral morphine. This hormone gives us a pleasant, calming feeling. It also has an anesthetic effect.

Don’t do drugs.

So you’re in the club, gettin’ your smile on (don’t overdose, fag), making correct eye contact with bitches. What separates the men from the boys at this point?

Class, my man. Class.

Ninety percent of the dudes in any given establishment are just ordinary shower-wankers. Joe schmoes. Savagely average. The rest emanate this so-called “class", and bitches pick up on this. So what in sovereign tarnation’s name is class, exactly? Ask a woman, and she’ll give me you a hummer shrug. They can’t define it. So I will. It’s like an aura (yea, I know, real concrete); you carry yourself in a way that commands bitches’ attention.

Under no circumstance have I just told you to point your nose in the air and act above anybody. Period. A man with class does everything with style. He’s as interested in everybody else as he is in himself. He can humble himself. And most importantly, he treats all women with respect.

So how do you remember your evenings? Let me guess:
1) If I danced with her
2) If I kissed her
3) If I got her telephone number
4) If I had sex with her that night

Fuck up The Circuits, and women will remember this:
1) His initial approach
2) What he was wearing
3) If he was wearing cologne
4) His choice of beverage
5) If he was a gentleman
6) If and how he interacted with other men and women
7) If he made her laugh

Sigh of Relief Moment: the belief that women only notice the most handsome and well-built dudes is a myth.
Men who dress to impress, are outgoing and friendly with everyone, and have a great sense of humor are the ones who have the competitive edge. Like Gillette, but with more edge.

Since clothes usually cover about 95% of a man’s body (sans you exhibitionist wackos), it’s only reasonable to expect women to notice what you wear (do yourself a favor and invest in some outstanding shoes, belts, and sunglasses, for starters). As well, men who interact with other men and women don’t seem desperate. Women follow and respond to their emotions. Laughter incites the emotion of joy, and women love to laugh. That doesn’t mean giving her Tickle-Fest Two Thousand K as she white-knuckles her fingers and toes into the sheets.

Although, giving it a second thought, I’d give you my Balls of Steele Award for Courage ®, along with a few (hundred) Purple Hearts.

I dare ya.

Daisy-Girl | Chokey Chicken | DarkMounty

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 6, 2004 | Permalink |