Micha Ghertner must have a lot of time on his hands. Or he’s just a man trying to fix a personal problem of his. In either case, he came up with a loophole that might end all loopholes:

“Prositution is illegal in most states, but filming pornographic videos for sale is not. Both the male and female participants are paid to make these films. But what if the director decides to produce and star in his or her own pornographic film? Is it pornography or prostitution? An enterprising prostitute, either male or female, could offer his or her “acting” services to people under the pretenses of making a pornographic video, but really as a way to engage in prostitution without breaking the law.”

If I had an evil laugh, I would bust one right now. The sheer scope of this concept is huge. Besides the ten counties in Nevada, the country of Switzerland, and some Australian states, prostitution is illegal, not heavily regulated. Suddenly, all fifty states (yea, even you, Kentucky) will be able to open up, uh, “production houses” with an assload of happy fledgling directors ready to make their own “do-it-yourself” videos!

Instead of paying the ho– …er, “talented thespian", now you’ll be paying a “production fee” or an “actors fee". Shit, you could have like twelve actors and have yourself a real party! Have the most insane application of method acting since, well, ever, and then on top of it all, you could even make money off the whole damn thing by making videos of bitches gettin’ tagged left and right by none other than yo’ hairy ass and selling ‘em right out of your own fucking garage to your neighbors! BRILLIANT!! Hahahah!!!

You know, I suddenly happen to have great “acting” services available. Would some of you ladies want to star in my new movie? (read: make love?) I’m calling it Star Whores: May the Foreskin Be With You. I’ve got great references, I’ve been trained in the classical ways of acting (you should see my “Oh” face), and I’ve got a really, really, really big… uh, resume of extremely satisfied past clients. And I can assure you every last drop of my, uh, “talent” will not wasted. Hell, once you’ve worked with me, you’ll have talent written all over your face!

So don’t be surprised if you see a skimpy-assed ho in a miniskirt trollin’ ’round yo’ neighborhood sportin’ a Handicam.

Save a starving actress. And bang that ho.

By Robert Shagwell | Oct 27, 2004 | Permalink |

Last summer I had the opportunity to visit Brazil for a month. Although there were plenty of crazy times, there were also some real good times, too. There’s just something about Brazilian girls that get me riled up like a rhino (read: damn horny). Maybe it’s their eclectic looks (black mixed with white mixed with Native Latino mixed with a whole lotta lovin’), their excellent choices of popular swimwear, their tanned, toned bodies, or their “I don’t give a fuck” confidence. Whatever it is, they drive me nuts.

They can cook, they can clean, they’ll be loyal and be the best damn mommas on the planet. Plus, they have the best fucking food on the planet. Rice and beans with pork? Guarana? If you’ve ever heard of or been to a real “rodizio” grill, or even an Americanized upscale rodizio grill, you’ll know what I’m talking about. The food comes in droves and the waiters don’t stop till they’re satisfied the only way your fat ass is getting out is through the service bay. And the women know how to eat. You won’t find any pussy-assed vegetarian women in Brazil. You won’t find any fatties, either. Everyone minds their diet and their weight properly, and the end result pays big: beautiful bodies paired with beautiful faces. Can’t lose.

There’s a phenomenon that industry-leading agencies have secretly known for a few years now. Brazilian women have the perfect ass. It’s not long and skinny, or fat and bulbous. It’s a nice package of plumpness, firmness, and roundness that give it so much personality and beauty. It delicately curves out like a perfect half-moon, then gently tucks right back into the thigh and that’s it. No thunderthighs, just perfection.

Just add a voraciously appetizing thong (what else would have necessitated the invention of the Brazilian Wax?).

And there’s not a single Brazilian girl who can’t shake her ass and dance. It’s like they were born to. Hell, the entire Brazilian popular music conglomerate is centered on songs that make women dance. Comparing them to these whiny white-assed American suburbia clubbing bitches would be like pitting Venus Williams against Tonya Harding in a boxing ring. It just wouldn’t be pretty. Name one American white girl that can dance… without her personal choreographer. Thank you.

Plus, who doesn’t like girls with a sexy accent? Girls who go crazy for Americans? Girls who are proud to walk around in their tight little bikinis and show off what God gave them?

Last summer I had the opportunity to visit the beautiful, bountiful land of Brazil in search of fine bitches. Not only did I find the most perfect specimens of female hotness, but I also found that crucial something missing from these fat-assed American girls. This general friendliness, their hospitality, their attitudes towards strangers. Everybody’s so happy and carefree, and these women are genuinely beautiful both inside and out.

While we might have the land of the free and home of the brave, Brazil will always be the land of good times and the home of some fine ass. Like Gisele Bundchen, Adriana Lima, Ana Hickmann, and Ana Cristina De Oliveira.

Doing Time | Steverino | Vagina Sand (not really…)

By Robert Shagwell | Oct 26, 2004 | Permalink |

I’ve been noticing recently that men are starting to get dumb when it comes to basic life skills. Sure, you may have great skills like nunchuck skills, bowhunting skills, and computer hacking skills, but when it comes down to the basic level of being human – the virtues of being a self-aware upright-walking human with some semblance of a conscience – you playas have got it all wrong.

So I’m going back to the basics. I’ll be devoting time to you fuckers in my new “Life Skills for a Playa” lecture series. I seriously don’t know how you animals can survive without me, sometimes. Perhaps the most flagrant offenses these classless men are committing these days occur right at what may be the most important visit of the day: the public restroom. So here’s a Life Skills module devoted to the public restrooms and mass urinals.

The Piss.

First things first: don’t dilly dally around, fool. The urinal is a precision machine made to do one job well: flush your piss. Don’t desecrate this great invention by drawing imaginary circles with your precision stream or what have you. The guys next to you will no doubt zip up early and split if they have any doubt “about you". If y’all naw mean.

When you’re at a urinal, make sure you completely avoid the “piss mint", as the chances of it splashing back on you increase tenfold. I think they’re even purposely manufactured this way. “Piss on me and I’ll piss back, sucka!” would be a catchy slogan for the next brand of piss mints. If you’re in line or out of luck and can’t find an available urinal, DON’T feel bad and DO proceed to your nearest stall, choosing the correct stall by applying the “I Can’t Wait No More” rule for optimum and efficient bladder displacement.

The rule goes like this: Go to a urinal if there is one available. If there’s not, don’t hesitate to use an empty stall. If there’s no empty stall ANDthe ONLY thing left is the handicap stall, AND there’s NO handicapped people in the establishment, only then can will it be okay to use it.

If you’re lucky enough to get a stall, feel free to participate in a game I like to call “Big Poppa". The game starts as soon as your piss hits the toilet water. Take out all the biggest bubbles that surface in the fastest manner possible, all while trying to suppress giggling like a little bitch. Seriously, it’s that fun. Note: this game is not applicable to a urinal. Especially a community “trench-style” urinal. Real playas don’t run up and down and around other guys trying to take out their opponents’ biggest bubbles. You’ll definitely get beaten and pissed on.

One last tip. I call it “Maneuver Numero Uno". Make sure that after you’ve pinched that last little clincher outta there, you give yourself the reach-around (sorta), and push against your taint. The little bit left in there waiting for you to zip up and walk away will jump down your pants and leave a nice little surprise for those lucky enough to be behind you when you get up out of your chair. So go ahead. Squeeze every last droplet outta that taint of yours. You’ll thank me later.

The Deuce.

First off, don’t deuce unless absolutely fucking necessary. Once you get an urge, don’t go. Act smooth, finish that last little sip of water or biscuit, and go on with whatever you’re doing. Last thing we need is somebody getting the deer-in-the-headlights look next time the bowels make a Beethoven-sized movement. If you go prematurely, all the poop might not come out (camera shy, I’m guessing), making you waste another trip to the restroom and giving your woman the impression you’ve got a bad case of explosive diarrhea. Once you’ve waited until the last possible minute (read: gopher-holin’ it), make your way smoothly and calmly into the nearest restroom, be sure to skip the handicap stall, and plant your ass firmly onto the john. Don’t worry about using the sanitary seat liner paper, as most public restrooms across the country nowadays are perfectly sanitary as they are.

Ha! Just kidding. Slap two of those bitches on there. Double check on the available supply of “hygiene paper” (that’s TP for you ill-versed illiterates), and let the rockets fly. Or drop. Deuces in the hole! Enjoy your moment of zen. Don’t waste your “me-time” by picking up a newspaper or magazine. Nothing should stop you from an enlightening poop (I’ll stop on the puns, folks).

No doubt you’ll have to release a few choice farts as you’re doing your business. So, do it proudly. It gives the guy in the next stall comfort you’re not doing anything else except dropping a good old-fashioned deuce. If you’ve ingested too many prunes and fiber, you might feel a little “runny". Let that shit fly, man. It’s gonna stink, it’s gonna sound stanky-assed, but it’ll definitely make you the most popular guy in the bathroom. You keep that gurgling and bubbling going nice and loud with a few choice and well-timed grunts of satisfaction, and you’ll get a quiet reveration as you leave from those sharing that restroom with you. Best of all, you’ll have a calm sense of peace knowing you left your fellow neighbor a little taste of what you’re all about.

Wipe from the back, not the front, little bitch. Make sure your member is all-clear from the seat, as that thing is crawling with more foreign organisms than Britney getting inseminated. The seat, silly.
Pinch off the last bit of urine, and turn around and perform Maneuver Numero Uno again to get that last little bitta piss outta your taint. Trust me. If you’ve ever walked one foot back out of the restroom and surprise-pissed yourself to make Miles Davis envious, you’ll know how important this is and you’ll thank me on this one. Those last few drops will come back to haunt you, my brotha.

Finally, and maybe the subject I must stress the most because of the seemingly flagrant disregard for common courtesy, FLUSH the fucking thing. Jesus H. Christ, asswipes. I can appreciate yo’ flava, and can even get down with the rhythmic pounding of your farts and happy groans, but for God’s sake don’t just leave it there! As much as leaving your 14.7″ corn-peppered monster coiled at the bottom of the toilet for the next hapless victim makes your i-penis feel bigger, it’s just not cool, mang.

The Hand Wash.

Washing hands ain’t no sissy job, sucka. You’ve heard it before and you’ll hear it again: wash your hands for thirty seconds with vigorous (and that’s the only time you’ll hear me mention “vigorous” aside from another obvious act) scrubbing with soap, then rinse thoroughly. Trust me. Your intellectual penis (read: i-penis) gets bigger with each second you outwash all the other men in there. Really. Women count the seconds you spend in the bathroom, so if you’re an in-an’-outter within 20 seconds, women assume either 1) you pissed like a bazooka and ran outta there with some kidney residue on your digits, or 2) you went into the bathroom solely to ogle yourself in the mirror, both of which do you no good.
If possible, use the paper towel to open the bathroom door, because, like I said, there’s in-an’-outters who “don’t need to” sanitize their hands.

And please don’t take a eight-foot-long roll of paper towel to dry your hands. You look like an asshat while doing it, and you’re wasting good paper that could be used to help cut down textbook costs for kids around the globe.

I’ve taught you The Piss, I’ve taught you The Deuce, and I imparted the proper procedure for washing your hands. Hopefully you’ll be able to apply this new-found knowledge with expertise and good judgment. What more could you ask for? Well, there is one thing I didn’t mention, that might as well save your life:

Don’t peek.

Your i-penis shrinks drastically, and worse yet, you might even get a wink back in surprise.

By Robert Shagwell | Oct 16, 2004 | Permalink |