It’s not often that I host parties over at my house, but I’ve gotta tell you: I’m a huge Halo afficionado. Halo 1 just kicked way too much ass, and the lan parties we’d often throw were some genuinely good times late into the early morn.

Halo 2 is an even bigger monster. I’ve been hooked on Live! since I first played the game, and it’s just an ass-kicking good time. I don’t have to go on and on about Halo 2, because chances are you and your grandma pre-ordered it on November 9th like 1.5 million other people. You can track my stats here (my gamertag is Trickey D), and if you ever wanna play me online, drop me a message. I’ll kick yo’ ass, sucka.

Back to my house. I organized a Halo 2 party, complete with some Chicago-style pizza, greasy fingers, and lots (and lots) of curse words. We had five Xbox/TV combos blaring throughout the different rooms of my house. Ahh, the sweet sounds of a Halo party:

“Fuck you bitch-ass cunt whore! Gimme back my flag, cockbite!”

Good times. We tried something new I’ve tried a few times before: Dawn of the Dead. It was the hit of the evening. With sixteen people, it was a fucking blast.

On an unrelated note, here’s a random tip for you guys: If two girls who are best friends both give you their number, you should not under any circumstances try to date them both (read: bone one behind the other’s back). No one (not even The Dick) has ever triumphed with such a feat. Bitches will never place some guy fuck buddy before their friendship. Pick one and stick with it. If you make the wrong decision and get the dud, tough shit. She’ll talk shit about you to her friend, and you’ll never get another chance. Shitty, huh?

By Robert Shagwell | Dec 30, 2004 | Permalink |

You know it’s been a good day when the high point is getting an ass massage by two beautiful women simultaneously.

I know a couple of girls that hang out with my brother and LB, and they came over to my house last night for some good ole times. Involving lots and lots of malt beverages.

I’ve been with Becky before; way before I ever met The Ex. Well, actually about a week before. Shit, that’s long enough time, though, right? So Becky walks in and she looks… different. Hotter.

I’m not one to poke and prod about a subject, so I figured I’d find out the hard way. She let me see her digital camera, and I flipped through her recent pictures. Nothing, nothing, nothing…

Bingo. Laying on the sofa with a huge bandage across her nose, and swelling and blackness all over her face. Dated 9 days ago.

Of course. Rhinoplasty. I looked up and saw the little bit of swelling left over, and it was suddenly obvious.

“Your nose looks fantabulous. I’ve always been a fan of subtle rhinoplasty,” I say. Britney’s work is a prime example, if you haven’t seen it.

Her surprised expression turns golden. “Thanks so much! Glad you noticed! I like it a lot, too, but there’s still some swelling that won’t be going away for another couple weeks.”

It did, in fact, look amazing. If there’s one thing that can do miracles for a woman, it’s a good nose job. She no longer has a Cro-Magnon arch, but a cute, slender, and perfectly shaped schnozz that retained all the character and charm of her old nose.

“It’s still broken, so touch it and I vanquish you eternally. Capiche?”

“Did I mention it looked amazing?”

The evening started off with some drinks. And then some more drinks. Our crew is big on watching the Family Guy, and my man LB just scored Volume 2 on top of his Volume 1, and now he commands all three seasons. We love playing the Family Guy Drinking Game, in which you drink when, um, pretty much anything happens.

Peter falls down? Take a drink. Brian acts like a dog? Take a drink. Stouie says something witty? Drink. Cameos? Chug. You get the idea. We got schwillied faster than some AA boys at an Anheuser Busch sleepover; we were laughing our asses off and enjoying ourselves immensely. God, I love the Family Guy.

The evening changed a little bit. We changed to speed quarters when we knew all hope was lost for driving home. I gave Becky a backrub while they played, and the evening quickly morphed from there.

Ten minutes and not a second later, both of my boys and I were deep in competition to find out who gave the best massage; speed quarters was long forgotten. The girls were enjoying themselves nicely.

I pulled my little bro and LB aside for a quick pep talk. “No bonin’ tonight. Let’s just massage ‘em till they… well, till they come. $300 bucks says so, got me?”

I got a couple of evil smirks, and it was on.

Becky and Ellie were probably the luckiest bitches I have ever known for that night. They had three guys constantly tag-teaming them with backrubs. It was incredible to hear the kind of moans coming out of these girls’ mouths. Becky’s camera was used to capture the various “O” faces that night. It was hilarious. Absolutely fucking hilarious how fucked up the situation was.

We massaged, then they massaged, then we double-massaged. We all got on the couch and it looked like something incredibly dirty. Two hours of the most intense non-sexual shit I’ve ever experienced.

I could tell my boys were having some trouble keeping it together, but they got the idea quickly and enjoyed the night for all it was worth. All I had to do was silently mouth “THREE HUNDRED” and they instantly dismissed any naughty thoughts they might have been harboring.

One thing led to the next, and I found myself face down on the floor, getting rubbed every which way by these two hot bitches.

“You ladies don’t happen to include ass massages in your itinerary, do you?”

I got two separate handfuls of ass as an affirmatory.

They caressed, kneaded, and played with my ass for what seemed like an eternity. I could feel the envious stares from the guys like heat from the sun. The way these girls slowly crept their way down my jeans and squeezed my inner thighs was almost enough to send me over the edge.

Phew! It felt like we should have been lighting cigars or something. When can we do that again?

By Robert Shagwell | Dec 27, 2004 | Permalink |

It felt good getting up a couple hours early and getting the adrenaline flowing again. Shit, the feast we had yesterday was enough to make a hippo keel over and pass out. I figure some of my New Year’s resolutions needed to come sooner than later, so I went and hit the gym for real today.

It was deserted, as I expected. Everybody was probably at home sleeping off the turkey and stuffing they ate at all the Christmas dinners yesterday. That would have been me, except I felt exceptionally excited to start getting back in shape NOW.

I felt a little sheepish as I went through the lobby entrance, my fat ass making its way to the weights and treadmill. The employees were all perfect specimens of muscle and symmetry, with not an ounce of fat to their name.

Soon, I’ll be joining those ranks. I’m giving myself a six-month timeline. The first half will be building up muscle with creatine and glutamine supplements, and the second half will be the “chiseling” phase (which happens to be a bitch). From today forward, my diet will be strictly regulated. Nothing ruins all that hard work faster than shitty nutrition.

You know what made me feel better, though? There were two bitches in there with me, following a personal trainer through their new exercise routine.

I was there. I felt their pain. They weren’t in shape by any means, but they had the same mentality I had: better today than tomorrow. I had respect for those bitches as the trainer explained how free weights will help them get stronger and give them a more appealing, defined muscle image.

You know what? Even though they weren’t the hottest bitches on the block, I had more respect for them than any other bitch on the street getting fat and not taking good care of themselves.

Ladies, do you know why you don’t have a boyfriend? Do you really know why all those so-called “slut-bags” get all the good-looking and wonderful men?

I get so sick of fat, disgusting bitches complaining to one another that such-and-such doesn’t deserve to be treated like this, or that she deserves so much better. Let me make this simple: no she doesn’t, if only because she doesn’t do something to get whatever it is you’re talking about.

The nice thing about relationships is you can always walk away. Either work to get what you want, either by bettering yourself or your situation, or accept what you have. There’s no magic to it; you get what you position yourself to get. It’s just that simple. No room for complaining.

This is my belief system, and there’s no blurry lines about it. Pretty cut ‘n dried to me.

So, bitches, here’s my advice on what you must do to get off your fat, lazy asses and do something about yourself:

1) Hit the gym. Seriously. Get yourself in shape, watch your diet, feel good about yourself, and take active measures to keep staying active and healthy for the rest of your life. If you’re overweight, you need to lose the fat. There’s no way around it. That said, bulemia is not attractive, either. There’s ladies-only gyms sprouting like weeds across the nation, so GO. This is rule number one. A proportional, fit body is something to be proud of, and men will notice. Once you start to see results from your exercise regimen, go ahead and hit the coed gym and ask for a spot. Roughly 43 hot guys will leap out at and want to give you a hand. (NOTE: 63% of American women are overweight or obese. DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.)

2) Learn basic fashion/make-up techniques. Minimalist is most often best. Don’t ask me what foundation or mascara do, cause I don’t know fuck-diddly about that shit. Want a clue? Get dirt-cheap subscriptions to Maxim, Vogue, and Cosmo from Best Deal Magazines. You don’t need to look like Gisele, Adriana, or Tyra, but at least look presentable, for fuck’s sake! (Janet Reno is a not an acceptable role model, by the way. She’s a man, if you haven’t noticed).

3) Do not compare your life to Sex and the City. No. It makes you look pathetic. What four manic-depressive slut-bags discover about themselves in a masochistic neo-phallic oppressive male-driven societyblah blah blah… Who cares. You’re an average woman , welcome to your real life. Want to get laid? How about turning off the television and stop feeding yourself the lies that the media overlords want you to believe. You think men look at $900 Prada handbags? Hell no. They’re looking at your funbags, instead. You’ll never be able to afford their clothes, so work with what you’ve got from Express, Gap, and Abercrombie. Don’t treat every guy as the season finale. He’s a guy, for fuck’s sake, not a plot device. No matter what you may think, it doesn’t make you any more interesting by creating drama in his life and seeing how your life compares to Carrie. Define your life by something else other than a cartoon for grown women and there’s a much better chance a decent guy will show interest in you.

4) Stop smoking. I don’t care. It’s disgusting, unappealing to 90% of men across the country, unhealthy, and dangerous. Yellow teeth weren’t even fashionable when George Washington was around (as far as I know, he was the original custom-grill masta). Please don’t give me that “I only smoke when I drink” bullshit, because we all know you drink 5 times a week.

5) Fix your teeth. The advancements in orthodontics and cosmetic dentistry these days are phenomenal. You can get clear mouth-guard retainers for reasonable prices. Remember that a great smile will last you forever, so consider it a small investment for such a long-term payoff. You’d be amazed at how far you can come in a short time, snaggletooth.

6) Get yourself some self esteem. Confidence is knowing you’re eventually going to look like a dumbass and not caring. Be able to laugh at yourself (and others). Don’t let your insecurities take over your life. Take care of your emotional and psychological problems, otherwise a selfish guy will see that and take advantage of you for his own purposes. Get your head on straight, lose the emotional baggage, and present yourself as mentally/physically/emotionally healthy, and you’ll definitely be seeing some decent guys.

7) Learn to speak well. Please. The words “like” and “omigod” SHOULD NOT BE EVERY OTHER WORD ESCAPING YOUR TRAP.

8) Stay up on current events. That means shutting off Days and picking up a news magazine or (gasp!) a newspaper. I’ve seriously gotten up and walked out of conversations with illiterate, ill-informed bitches (”weapons of ass reduction?").

9) Be more fun. Seriously. Honestly ask yourself, “Am I fun to hang out with?” Do not ask your friends, because they’ll just lie through their teeth. Do guys congregate you? Do you easily meet strangers at bars or other venues? I’ve met lots of girls who were not all that physically attractive but got great guys because they were a lot of fun. They are some of my closest friends and best buddies. They’re relaxed, fun, and entertaining. Ask yourself: do you contribute to a social situation, or do you detract from it? Do you bring something to the table, or do you take something off?

If you take something off, fear not. The world will still keep spinning. You know how I learned to be the life of the party? By watching and imitating those that were. This does not mean you should become me (ha! The world can only handle one Dick.), it means you should, within the limits of your personality, loosen up and be someone that is fun to be with. At the very least, stop being so damn self-conscious. You can get away with a lot of shit with a little confidence.

It’s so important, it bears repetition: You get what you position yourself to get.

You don’t have to believe or accept what I write. You can sit there and bitch about wanting to find a man who “accepts you for who you are". If you do, have fun living alone in a big house with lots of cats, watching Friends re-runs while you finish off entire bags Oreos.

And you wonder why I use the word “bitches” so much.

Bitches.

By Robert Shagwell | Dec 26, 2004 | Permalink |

I’m taking the day off to be with my family. It’s going to be a great time.

Everybody’s got Christmas traditions their family follows, and mine is no different. For example, we’re so impatient that we get to open half the presents on Christmas Eve, and the rest of the presents (most often the smaller, less cool ones) get ripped open on Christmas morning. It wasn’t always like this, but my little brother (who loves his new website, by the way) and I like to think that we had heavy influence on the tradition. We’ll probably pass it on to our kids, because it’ll definitely be in their genes, too.

My momma’s getting up bright and early and hitting the kitchen to start on the feast that she’s putting on for everybody. Our house has always been open to anyone not fortunate enough, or without any family to enjoy a proper Christmas dinner with. She always reserve extra spaces for special guests. This year, we’re proud to give a Columbian refugee a place to enjoy a cozy, warm Christmas dinner. His wife and kids are still waiting for papers to move here from Columbia, so he’s stuck without any family to celebrate Christmas with. How fucked up is that? I’ve met the guy, and he’s one of the nicest, most grateful people I have ever known. He puts a fresh, positive new perspective on everything he does, and it’s uplifting to see him despite having a family separated from him.

Have a wonderful Christmas. If you can, invite someone more needy than yourself to a proper Christmas dinner. You know exactly who I’m talking about.

Make somebody’s Christmas a little better than it was before. And with that, The Dick would like to wish everyone a Very Merry Christmas!

By Robert Shagwell | Dec 25, 2004 | Permalink |

I dove into my Mixed Grill like the place was going out of business. A skewer of sirloin beef and a skewer of chicken, both caringly marinated in a rosemary demi-glace and grilled to perfection, then finished with seasoned roasted potatoes and roasted zucchini and squash. God, it was good. And right on cue, our waiter comes by and makes sure the Chianti is full and the steak is prepared to our content. The kid did a wonderful job, kept us happy, and made sure we stuffed ourselves to beyond satisfaction.

We went out to dinner tonight at the Neighborhood Italian Restaurant. I fucking love Italian food. It’s good for you and bad for you at the same time, what with the garlic bread doused with butter and the alfredo dipping sauce.

But you know what I like even more than the food? Good service. A good waiter or (preferably) waitress who’s efficient, well-spoken, attentive, knowledgeable, and charming. And it pisses me off when there’s a table harassing a server.

You’ve all seen it: loud and obnoxious, snapping their fingers to get attention, and unabashedly rude to absolutely everybody wearing a nametag.

Tonight the table behind us had the biggest bitch I’ve ever seen visit a dining establishment. I felt so sorry for our waiter, who calmly and methodically handled each and every outrageous thing she made him do.

I waited tables through college. It’s a good night job for students who spend all day at school and need the money to pay tuition and make the rent each month. Therefore, I have a special place in my heart for all the hard-working young women (and… I guess young men, too, though not as big a place) busting their asses waiting tables.

Now, this lady did pretty much everything that you could possibly do wrong in a respectable dining environment. I’ll use her as a case example of how not to act when out eating.

She storms in, wearing one of those cheap, poofy feathery boa pieces of shit you see B-grade strippers using on their dances. Her outfit is completely off, and her hair is a disaster of horrendous dying and styling. She wears an air of a cheap hooker. Almost.

So she immediately makes herself the center of attention in the welcoming lobby where my crew and I are patiently waiting to be seated. She has to go “take a look around", and marches back demanding to be seated in the best table of the restaurant: right by the corner windows overlooking the street.

Our party gets seated, and sure enough, a few minutes later her family – consisting of her meek and clearly embarassed husband and their obnoxious four year-old – show up and sit right behind us in a booth.

She proceeds to (and I kid you not) blab loudly into her phone so that everyone can hear, plays with her new ringtones, and refuses to pay for a (cheap) merlot because she swears “merlots are white where she’s from.”

She then orders a water with a splash of tonic, absolutely no ice, and two slices each of lemon and lime on a side plate. And that’s just the drink. I was facing them, and I could feel the quiet hatred this poor waiter must have begun to pen up. Meanwhile, the husband sat there staring down at his silverware the whole time, clearly embarrassed but too shy to keep his own monster of a bitch in line.

She wanted more (free) soup after finishing the first one (because it was “too cold"), and returned her steak al gorgonzola twice, both times “way too pink” despite being a mid-rare. She even got up and interrupted him while he was busy serving us our desserts, pointing at her steak like a rabid dog. She then refused to pay for her or her child’s meal (because “he didn’t like it", although he finished a good half of his plate), and demanded to see the manager. The poor kitchen manager had no choice but to comp both meals off, leaving a check right under twenty dollars at max. I also have a feeling they stayed while she blabbed on her phone for another hour, sapping any hopes the waiter may have had about turning over a decent amount of tables to make some money. I figure she probably left him 6% …in loose change.

I get pissed off just thinking about it right now. I figured it’d be a good time to explain to the American public exactly how you should behave. I pooled some pointers, and this is what The Dick has to say about dining out:

Waiters in almost all states save those like California make an hourly wage so shitty, it is barely enough to cover taxes. Here in Idaho, the wage for a tipped waiter is exactly $3.35, while in some states, like Alabama, the average wage is down near $2.25. Most ignorant people just assume that because the waiter’s wearing a nice tie and a cleanly pressed shirt, that he’s well off with a great wage and decent tips. But the fact is, their paychecks come back less than $40 after taxes, and utter fuckheads who don’t know how to tip make paying rent a last-minute ordeal by barely scraping together enough funds to make it to the next month.

If you’re out eating at a restaurant,

• Turn off your cell phone (unless you’re a doctor, and even then, you should take the call outside.)
• Sit where you’re seated, and don’t complain unless there’s a disability involved. It’s really nothing against you, but everybody knows that the best tables will always go to the best tippers.
• Order off the menu. Substitutions and special orders are pains in the ass for the server and the kitchen, and your preference for roma tomatoes over cherry tomatoes over al dente whole wheat linguine with half marinara and half alfredo sauces is about as desirable as waking up next to a fat ho. Unless you’re at serious risk of convulsions caused by a severe allergic reaction, get the fuck out. You don’t go to a guest’s house and tell them how to cook the food, right?
• Say please and thank you. Every single time. It’s aggravating how many people forget this common courtesy. Waiters are already perma-pissed. A little irritation can cause a server to do some crazy things. Just remember who’s the one handling all your food. A little politeness goes a looong way in ensuring quality food.
• Tip the waiter anywhere in the range of 15% to 20% of the total bill, regardless of how much tax or alcohol you have. This is the American Standard, so do it regardless of the quality of service or food. You might forget you stiffed the server not even ten minutes after you left. He, on the other hand, will not forget.
• Order everything at once. It really is a pain in the ass for both the kitchen and the wait staff.
• Don’t take forever. These people, just like the restaurant, are here to make a living. When you sit there and flap your jaw, you are costing people their money. You’ve got an hour max. Unless you order big… and tip bigger. Salad and waters? You’ve got 15 minutes, bitches.
• Never interrupt or, God forbid, touch the wait staff. Grab their arm and ask for a water and you won’t be seeing any till you get back home. Never, ever snap, either. That’s a big, big no-no.

One more thing: If you’re black or hispanic, break the trend and actually tip. I hate breaking it to you, but just because you like eating at buffets and self-serve restaurants doesn’t mean you stop tipping at a regular joint. In fact, you, on average, tip a full 20% less than white people do. Yes, the servers make a living off your tips, not off $3.35. I won’t lie: even I hated waiting on minorities, especially black people.

So welcome to the meager 27% of black people in all America who actually understand the standard tip in American restaurants is 15 to 20 percent.

For fuck’s sake!

Cornell University Study Studies Ethnic Differences in Tipping.

By Robert Shagwell | Dec 24, 2004 | Permalink |

Jesus H. Christ! I’m never doin’ that again.

My man LB and a couple of his crew invited me down to the gym to ball it up. I couldn’t resist. It’s my game (next to golf), and I need to start getting back into shape if I’m going to be hittin’ the gym hard come 2005. I figured why not? I’ll get a few games in, break a sweat, and get my heart rate up, and feel the adrenaline as I go up for a dunk (ha!).

Then I found out I had no shoes. I lost my kicks during the move, and I don’t have any other pair of basketball shoes. Fuck.

So I drive my ass down to Another Neighborhood Athletic Shoe Store and get some shoes. God. During my ballin’ days, they had some real shoes. These pieces of shit nowadays don’t deserve to be worn. They’re ass-ugly enough to send even the white boys scurrying back home. Seriously.

I got me some old throw-back hightop classics (there we go!), and received an urgent message from my gut:

Feed me, bitch.

Damn. I was already runnin’ late, so I stopped by Carl’s Jr. and got me a real burger. As soon as I finished it, though, it landed in my stomach with a dull, resounding thud. Woops. Not a good idea. At all.

I’m burping my way to the gym, lace up the sneaks and hit the courts. They’re already shootin’ around, waiting’ for my ass.

“The fuck you been? We’ve been waitin’ on yo’ ass for days now! Let’s hit it! You’re skins.”

“But I haven’t even stretched out my–”

“Fuck that. You’re tipping off.”

“But I like stretching!”

And just like that, we start the game. And just like we always play, we play hard.

Carl’s in my stomach callin’ the Human Society after exactly 4.2 seconds of running. I can feel him squirming around in there. It’s not looking good for me.

“Come on, guys. Let’s do some half-court instead, huh?”

I get exactly three dirty glances, four smirks, and seven snickers. These kids are all in their twenties, and my man LB and I are the only old fuckers on the court.

And the hell if The Dick’s gonna get shown up by these punk children.

So I step up my game, buck up on D, and give ‘em hell.

Meanwhile, Carl might as well shirt up, he’s kicking my stomach enough to warrant inclusion in the other team. I think I farted on a layup attempt, actually. I didn’t dare look around to see if anybody noticed. They might start callin’ me “gramps” ‘n shit.

I get a break and head down the court full speed against one of them young bucks. Just me and him, and I’m gonna show these kids a thing or two about the game. I can visualize the dunk from here, and I look at this kid’s eyes to see if he’s gonna stop me.

I see hesitation. Panic. I’m good to go.

I go up hard, two handed. This is gonna feel so good.

I see him smiling on the way up with me. And he stuffs the living shit clean outta me on my dunk attempt. Like a turkey on Thanksgiving.

I’m sittin’ there on my ass as he dribbles back to the other end of the court with everybody else.

I fart again.

Sigh. It’s gonna be a long way to tip-top shape.

By Robert Shagwell | Dec 22, 2004 | Permalink |

Monogamy is no fun. The same body. The same face. The same lips. Sure, I wasn’t married, but the whip cracked over my head quite often. She was marriage material, after all. Plus, I consider myself grown up now, and classier than your average penis. Cheating on somebody you’ve invested months into making it all work is counter-productive, in any case.

But now that I’m back to square one, and I’ve got to rethink my plans. I’m reminded of the days long ago where I’d pop into a bar, casually picking up the bitch that caught my eye, and ballin’ her completely in her own house. I’d be juggling six different bitches at the same time, always testing the water with each one to see how my chances were doing. Quite often, I’d get action twice a day.

Shit, it’s our biological imperative to disseminate our DNA. As a card-carrying Man, it is my duty to Mankind to ensure we don’t all die out due to menstruation and McFatness.

Unless you enjoy the game of deception and you’re an exceptional liar (I call it fact manipulation) , dating two (or, ahem more) women is a huge strain and requires time and management skills. I’ve always relied on a great memory, but the help of a Palm Pilot can be used to get the story straight. It’s a constantly evolving game, laced with deception, charm, incredible stories, and more hotness than you could ever dream of.

That’s why I am now labeling myself polyamorous. “Lovin’ ‘em all,” as I like to call it. Until I find that perfect woman to settle down with, I’m going to actively get back in the game.

Granted, once you hit your 30s, the scene dies down a little bit. But would I throw it into an 18-year-old dance major? You bet yo’ pirouettin’ ass. I won’t be content dating (read: fucking) a single woman at a time to find out if she’s really the One for me. In this day and age, it just takes way too damn long. That’s why I’ll multitask bitches like I once used to. I’ll have major throughput, seeing roughly four times as many bitches in the same time frame as other suckas. Like a high-speed hyperthreaded search algorithm, I’m extra efficient, and have got a huge… bus.

But promiscuous people aren’t truly happy, you whine.

Who said I was going for happy? I’ll be the first person you should talk to on the topic of Instant Gratification versus Long-term Satisfaction. I know both sides of the equation. I’ve been quite a ways down both roads. But if you boil it down to its core premises, both sides have their advantages and potential to get you the other.

Think about it. Ever notice a settled guy not getting hit on? The principle of obsession over that which you cannot attain applies perfectly, especially when coupled with the fickle jealousy of women. Although some crafty fellows have exploited this undersight, this isn’t the direction I want to go.

I want to use the Instant Gratification part of the equation to isolate and solve for the Long-term Satisfaction part. It’s simple algebra. Like any successful executive, I have my sights on long-term goals (settling down with the One, AKA “Neo") while constantly moving forward with plenty of successful short-term achievements.

Mmmm. Neo-mi Watts would do quite nicely.

I digress. Long-term by using short-term. Right. The plan: I’ll use Fucking Around as but a tool to attain the One. A mere formality, if you will. Sure, it might be fun and exciting (OK, probably the most fun and exciting life you could ever live), but there’s got to be a point where you’ve got to stop.

Looking for excitement in the next encounter, for the bigger, the better, the more outrageous. Never really satisfied with what you have, but continuing to strive toward something that is always out of reach. I’ve gone down this lonely road many a time, and this is the low-down on that shit: Attempt to replace quantity with quality and you’ll grow even more tired with each new adventure and move on, unsatisfied, to the next. A vicious circle with no end in sight, until you look at yourself in the mirror a decade too late and discover a disgusting, past-his-prime womanizer looking back at you.

I’ve seen this happen plenty in my own life, and I know what’ll eventually happen. But now that I’ve known what it’s like to be with someone you truly love with and share a special bond with, I know no greater joy. Happiness.

I’ll get there, eventually. I’ll find that special someone.

In the meantime, I’ve gotta get to bonin’.

By Robert Shagwell | Dec 21, 2004 | Permalink |

Surprise, surprise! Guess who shows up at my door merely days after the huge breakup? That’s right.

The ex.

Lookin’ damn fine, I might add. I just stood there looking at her, and she wraps her arms around me and hugs me for a long time as the cold breeze blows by. She’s warm.

Shit, she’s hot. She got herself some new pumps (nothing cures the blues like a little shopping, huh ladies?) and fixed herself up quite good.

“I’m not here to beg you to take me back, although I’ll let you know right now that would make me the happiest woman on Earth. I know how you wanted to stay friends, so I came over to hang out… as friends.”

She’s biting her bottom lip.

She only does that when she’s horny.

“Friends with benefits. Unless you’re opposed, that is.” And with that, she shows me her lack of panties.

I pick her ass up right then and there and throw her into my room. She’s fuck-ready, that’s for sure. We hurriedly strip each other as if we couldn’t do it fast enough, and have the sloppiest, greatest breakup sex I’ve ever sexperienced.

And then we had seconds. And thirds. And then some ice cream.

“This is dangerous, you know,” I say as I down some Butter Pecan. “Friends with benefits often lead to feelings and jealousy.”

“Well, I’ve already had feelings for you, so you don’t have to worry about that. And jealousy? I’ll live with it…

“As long as you sex me up when I want it.”

“So now I’m your soul brotha booty call serviceman?”

“Exactly. No strings, no awkwardness; just good old-fashioned benefits.”

I’m ready to carry her ass back into the bedroom. This is unreal. It’s not happening to me right now. I must be dreaming.

I look down at my ice cream and touch it with my fingers. It’s cold. But I’ve had sweet, sweet dreams about ice cream before, so I can’t trust myself on this one. Mmmm. Ice cream.

So I pinch her ass really hard.

“OWW! The fuck you do that for?”

“Oh, thought I was dreaming. My bad.”

We finish our delectable desserts, and she leaves after giving me a big hug.

“I’ll call you, big boy.”

And just like that, we’ve entered a new chapter in our lives.

Not only can I have some cake, but I can eat it, too. And then try out another cake, and eat it, too.

And, God willing, if I play my cards right, I’ll get to have more than one cake at the same time.

We boiled our relationship down to the bare essentials. Call ahead, arrive, strip, fuck, make me a sandwich, and leave.

So long as I don’t have some other cake still sleeping in my bed, this will continue indefinitely. Well, at least as long as her rackety Dune Buggy of Emotions holds out. And if we have a falling out, I lose the poon and maybe a friendship.

There’s nothing better than boning a bitch, knowing you got your Benefits hottie in the bag in another hour.

No presents, no dinner, no movie.

Can a brotha get a holla?

By Robert Shagwell | Dec 20, 2004 | Permalink |

Yup. Santa came early. Or maybe just a little too late.

Since we’re no longer together, my ex-woman decided to give me my present yesterday. I’m thinking it was a last plea help, but we all know Dick doesn’t go back on his word now, don’t we?

In any case, she got me the new 4th gen iPod, which kicks ass. I don’t think I’ve ever had as cool a gadget/toy/present as this one. I’m something of a music afficionado, and this is the perfect gift for me. My 1,156 songs are now not only organized, but easily accessible, ready to play, and damn good-lookin’, too.

So now, Curtis Mayfield, Stevie Wonder, Jackson 5, Modest Mouse, Al Green, and my main man Marvin Gaye are at the reach of a button. Custom on-the-fly playlists? Easy as touch and go. I had one of my lady friends hold on to it for thirty seconds max, and before I knew it she was browsing the collection like a pro. That’s how good the design is.

The next step? Interfacing it with my car and make a near-seamless transition from being out in the street to inside my car with as little pause as possible. That means getting a CD changer adapter for my receiver to accept a direct connection from the iPod, a cigarette lighter charger, and a holder.

It’s looking good so far. Never again will I be forced to burn another CD again.

And that makes me sleep well at night.

By Robert Shagwell | Dec 19, 2004 | Permalink |

I must be the coolest sucka ever.

Seriously, I would love having me as a friend ten times over just to see what presents I would get.

On Christmas day, I’m going to give my little bro a huge, wrapped box with some weights inside to think I got him something big, but inside all it’s going to have is a piece of paper with a website written on it.

His own new website.

Yea, how totally dope is that? Granted, it’s not as flashy as this one, but I got him his own domain using his own personal nickname. It’s all set up with Wordpress, and he’s got more data storage and transfer than he’ll ever need, and I paid for the hosting up front for a whole year.

Now, he can start blogging just like Big Dick.

As far as the rest of the crew goes, how about this: Diesel pumps for my favorite girlfriend, a Banana coat for my momma, and a complete DVD home theater system for my pops. Then Napoleon Dynamite DVDs for everyone else as stocking stuffers.

Is there a perfect, universal gift? Hell no.

It’s all about predicting what that person wants most. It’s about picking up on little hints throughout the year. It’s about giving, above all.

That being said, I think I’m fucking finally getting my iPod. Weee!

By Robert Shagwell | Dec 17, 2004 | Permalink |

What do I do with myself? I feel like a fish out of the water. I’ve been in a relationship for so long that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be single again.

I couldn’t sleep last night. It’s not the same without cuddling next to your woman.

I fucking hope to God I don’t rebound.

On some nasty ho.

I’ve been spoiled, you see. She was damn fine. Everywhere we went, she turned heads. Even though I didn’t like hearing it, I secretly admired all her exploits dodging pickup line after lame pickup line. I’m not the most jealous guy in the block, but there’s a certain amount of pride in knowing you’ve got a fine bitch, you know?

But she didn’t cook or clean, she didn’t know how to sew a button on my dress shirt, and she loved spending money. No one’s perfect, though, right?

How the fuck are we supposed to be friends now that she’s talking shit about me like she’s got diarrhea of the mouth? She’s got a network of over 100 hotties she stays in contact with, and they’re all going to hear what an asshole I am for dumping her cheating ass.

Which means no ass for me in a long time.

Even though I feel horrible about what happened and I wish there was a better solution, I know there’s not. If I had broken down and gotten back together with her, she would have been real sweet for a certain amount of time, then things would have gone back to the ways it was before. And to be completely honest, it wasn’t as good as it should have been.

In any case, I can’t brag about my woman anymore. I mentioned her all the time in daily conversation, and I’m going to look like another pussy if I start mentioning “my ex” all the time. I don’t want to dwell on the past, but our past had a great history with some truly awesome times. And sex.

Now, I’m completely out of practice. I haven’t consciously flirted with a bitch in about a year. I’m getting flabby. I stopped working out, and have let myself go.

My new open action item (new year’s resolutions are so passe) is the following: I’m going to refine my image, hit the gym religiously again, get some new threads, and hit the scene running.

I’m gonna find me that ultimate bitch.

All those exploits I had bragged about (then later apologized) will help me remember and relive my (crazy) past. It’ll help me be the playa I was before. Lock your doors, ladies, women, girls, and grandmas (ha!).

Dick Shagwell is back on the scene.

…Bitches!

By Robert Shagwell | Dec 16, 2004 | Permalink |

I’m sitting at Chili’s, in the lounge surrounded by a throng of fat people. The din is unreal. We’re in the spotlight. But I know that she’s really the one in the spotlight. She’s got something she’s gotta tell me, and I fiddle lamely with my half-eaten Molten Chocolate Cake.

It’d been gone in thirty seconds flat (she’s witnessed it before), but there’s something not right about it. She can’t look me in the eye. She hasn’t been all day. I wonder if she’s finally going to tell me which of my closest brothas her best friend is in love with and secretly seeing.

I wish that was all it was. I know it’s far worse, though.

* * * * * * *

We’ve been going out non-stop for over a year now, and I took her home after two days. Not to brag, but I broke her in. Stole her cherry, and ate it, too. And she likes it. She’s liked it from the very beginning. She fell in love with me shortly after that (coincidence? I’ll let you decide), and we became exclusive pretty quick. She’s a hot, petite lil’ blonde mama, perfectly proportioned (read: judicious jugs, and a perfect, symmetrical ass) with a no-frills attitude and zero drama. More than any guy could ask for.

Although it sounds pussy, I’ve spent every single night (save for, like, three) sharing the same bed with her. That takes a lot of trust from me, and it was a limb I was willing to risk for this woman.

Six months into it, I finally admitted that I loved her. She was so happy. We were so happy.

A few months ago, she dumped my ass for no reason at all. She was confused about where her life was going, and had taken the advice of every single behind-the-back shit-talking bitch she knew. I didn’t take it so bad, because I knew it was coming a week in advance. Still, the thought of her agreeing to see other people killed me inside (as it should any self-respecting man).

Sho’ ’nuff, a week later she shows up at my door dressed to kill (how come they never look that good when they’re attached, anyway?). It took all my self-control not to throw her down on her bed and bone the living shit outta her. She breaks down crying, and tells me about this dude she was with.

I already knew the story before she told it. She wasn’t sure what to do with herself, and at the merciless and idiotic suggestions of her dumbassed girlfriends, she almost spent the night with the guy “that was right for her".

No, she’s not a ho. She didn’t sex him up, but everything else left out under the sun happened.

She told me she tried to make it work with him, but she knew that deep inside the only love she had was for Dick.

And like a softie, I took her back.

I know, I know. You shoulda seen her outfit, though.

So it’s been going good for the last four months or so since that happened. Monday night she was out with her girlfriends till past 2am, which is unlike her because she had an important final that next morning. And she wouldn’t answer the phone.

I knew she was drinking. Heavily.

I jumped in the sack and tried not to think about it. When she goes on a drinking binge, she goes all out. There’s no stopping her ass. She flirts with every guy and girl within a three mile radius, and gets PISSED when they take her keys away. And don’t try and take her phone, either, because she’ll walk all six miles home when it’s freezing outside in heels and a miniskirt through the worst parts of town.

She’s a monster when she’s drunk. Somebody I don’t even know. It’s her rendition of Edward Hyde: completely uncontrollable and at the mercy of her own crazy impulses. I’ve been woken up by the desperate pleas of her friends at 4am and tried finding her in my car. I’ve been through shit for her.

Five am. I hear knocking on the front door. She doesn’t have a key (probably for this very reason), and I locked it on purpose. She calls my man LB (who lives next to me) five times and wakes his ass up to open up my door. She strolls in, strips, and stumbles into bed. Snoring in less than a minute flat.

She never snores.

She wakes up yesterday morning and takes her final, and does miserably. She doesn’t talk to me all day because she’s gotta study.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I’m studying her face again. We’re at Chili’s, and I’m poring over every detail I can from her expressions. I’m not forgetting this one.

Her face tells the whole story.

I set my fork down and push my desert out. I want to know. She already ruined dinner and my favorite dessert, she might as well ruin my whole evening.

“You’ve gotta promise that you’ll let me finish, with no interruptions or questions or remarks. You can’t judge me until I finish. Promise?”

“Tell me.”

“Promise?”

“OK. I promise. Tell me.”

“I’ll start by saying that I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and I know if it happened to me, I would be extremely pissed, but I wouldn’t dump you.”

Like a big bet on the Flop, you try and put your opponent on a hand. I’m thinking a she’s got a pair of Jacks. Not the big hand, but enough to get somebody’s attention.

Like a blowjob.

She had gotten a hold of a bottle of peach schnapps, her favorite hooch at a Fuck the Finals party. I started shaking my head, she gave me a stern look, and continued.

“Before I knew it, I had finished the bottle.”

“You mean you didn’t know that you drank the whole thing until it was too late? Or because you have a problem and you couldn’t stop?”

She looks defeated, then defensive, then irate.

“Sorry, continue.”

The party raged into the night, and she was having such a good time (without me, weird, huh?) with all her girls.

She must have been, because they took her keys again.

Some fucker she knew offered to take her to his house and let her sleep on his bed.

“And like a complete fucking idiot, I said ‘OK!’ “

Fourth card comes out, and her third Jack comes out. Meanwhile, my hand goes from bad to worse.

She looks down for ten minutes or more, while I study her face. I can’t show any emotion right now. I push it back, and focus on her.

The waitress is annoyed at our apathy towards her. Other people in the restaurant are wondering why we’re together if we’re not even talking or looking at each other.

I’m wondering the same thing.

“Tell me.”

She begins to choke up, then pretends to fish something out of her purse while she calms herself back down.

“Tell me.” I’m drumming my fingers.

She’s avoiding all eye contact now.

She makes a quick gesture towards her lips. The same gesture she used when she wanted a kiss in public.

“Tell me.”

“I don’t want to cry in here. I’ll tell you in the car.”

I left a 20% tip for the waitress for her troubles. I also secretly wrote “She cheated on me” on my napkin as we got up to leave.

As we walked past the front windows, I could see the waitress and two girl coworkers looking at that napkin, and us.

I looked at them, and took my arm off her.

She plops lazily into my passenger seat, and I tell her goodnight.

She breaks down. “No! Don’t make me leave! I want to talk! You’ve got to be thinking something! What are you thinking?” She’s sobbing now.

I really don’t know how to feel. I’m not surprised, because I knew it was coming. Therefore, I’m not mad, either. Just matter-of-factual. Secretly weighing in all the options for the decision I’m going to make in a few minutes. But hell if she’s gonna know that.

The River comes a deuce of hearts. A nothing card.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I didn’t mean to! I didn’t know what I was doing!” More sobby pleas.

I stay silent, driving up to an overlook of the highway. I stay there for a long time, hearing her repeated apologies and excuses. But I’m not listening. I’m carefully weighing out my options.

I look down at my hand, and I’m holding a 3-4 in hearts. I look at the flop, and I see a 5-6 on the board. Hearts as well.

I hadn’t been paying attention, and the solution was there the entire time. The nothing card suddenly comes to my favor, and I’ve got the nuts.

I can’t let her know what I’ve got, because I want her to put as much out there as possible before I surprise her with my hand. My decision.

I turn around, and we’re back to the parking lot next to her car.

“Why won’t you tell me what you’re thinking? You’ve got to be thinking something?”

I shrug my shoulders. “You’ve gotta go home now. You’ve got to go study for that final.”

Her face distorts into sorrow, and then a bawl. “No!”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Go study.”

She gives me one last look, and slams my door closed as she gets in her car.

I’m driving out of the parking lot now, and she’s right behind me. I have an idea. I call her.

“Come to my house. I think everything’s gonna be OK.” …I check…

She rolls the thought around in her head, searching for any sign of sympathy. “OK, I’m coming over.”

…she bets…

She arrives with a half-smile. I’m in my room tidying things up. All her belongings are neatly stacked on the bed.

… and I raise. I’m all in.

I point to the stack, and she looks at me.

Her wretched face contorts into the saddest face I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

She curls up and cries for what seems like an hour.

She knows I’ve got the nuts now. But it’s too late.

“I just want to be friends with you, sweetie. I can’t be in this relationship with you any longer if I can’t trust you. You know that.”

“I know. I just want you to be happy. You deserve that from me.”

“Have I ever done anything to hurt you?”

“No. You… you deserve so much more than–” and then breaks completely down.

She picks up all her belongings: our favorite blanket, my sweats that she always wears to bed, her toothbrush.

I give her a kiss on the cheek as we stand in front of the door.

“I told you. Everything’s gonna be OK.”

By Robert Shagwell | Dec 15, 2004 | Permalink |

Welcome to the first of many of my new Design Flaw Series. Today we’ll look at the woman’s vagina from a design and marketing point of view, weighing in its strong points, and its infinitesimally inexcusable flaws. And a point of information to you ladies: your pussy might hurt after reading this.

We’ve all been there. We’ve seen the elusive bearded clam before. Whether you’re a honey and currently own one, or you’re a brotha smooth enough to sneak a lil’ peek, everybody knows it looks like up close. So it’s no surprise that there’s such a resonant wave of dissent over the current design issues associated with the cootchie. It’s my goal to let God know about all the changes that should go into making the new Pussy2.0™. Like the new iPod, it’s all about the user interface, with the design the extra bonus. Let’s get started, bitches.

“Fur Burger". “Whisker biscuit". “Hair Pie". “Porcupine". These are words that shouldn’t be used to describe the vag. I can tell you from personal experience, it’s no fun going Downtown and seeing the sights and getting poked by stiff, bristly porcupine follicles. It hurts. I’ve had aquaintances of mine laugh at me because they thought I’ve broken out in a nasty fit of acne, when really I was just doing my duty as a man who loves performing cunnilingus. Is it so hard to shave? I keep a fresh pack of feminine razors under the bed. If an afro of love explodes out of her panties, I kick her ass out the bed and throw a razor at her as I chase her to the bathroom. I’m to the point where I get turned off by it, and I wonder if it’s really that much work to stay bald or, at the very least, neatly trimmed down there. Hell, if a brotha can keep himself looking presentable, shouldn’t the bitch at least return the favor?

Or how ’bout this one: you’re feeding the calf, and she’s ascending to the heights of pleasure. Suddenly you stop at the most inopportune time.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“Listen, girl, could you grab those tweezers over there and pick this pube out ‘tween my teeth right here? The fucker’s killin’ me.”

So if you’re reading this, God, here’s what I recommend goes into the design of the new Pussy2.0™. No hair. Smooth as an elbow, or my nephew’s baby ass. Granted, there won’t be any more bread crumbs to snack on while the fellas are down there, but I think that’s a tradeoff we’re all willing to take. Plus, any and all of the stank down there is doubled by the presence of the aroma-absorbing pubes. In the meantime, ladies, just do your dude a favor and go bald. See what he thinks. If you don’t see an increase in the amount of yodeling in the canyon of love over the course of a few weeks, you can revert to the beaver you’re used to. Who cares if you look like a 13-year-old? Your man certainly won’t, and your girlfriends will just nod with silent congratulation. You’ll thank me later.

If you know what “beef curtains” are, go ahead and skip this section. If you’re not in the know, beef curtains are most closely approximated by imagining curtains… made out of beef. I think we all get the idea. Although mostly predominant in girls of certain ethnic origins, it can happen to the best of ‘em. And when it does, it’s not pretty. God, if you’re reading this, do us fellas a favor and get rid of ‘em in the new Pussy2.0™. I know there’s guys who don’t mind their presence, but I think the human race would be better for it if you kept the outer labia’s size to a manageable zilch.

Every brotha’s been in this situation: slammin’ away at his ho du jour, and she explodes into a fantastic fireball of ecstasy as waves upon waves of relentless orgasms take over entire her body. But you ain’t got yours yet. And then the Four Words of Doom are uttered.

“Stop. My pussy hurts.”

Yup. I cringe when I hear those words, too. The garage is closed for business.

From a user interface point of view, this is a complete fuck-up.

Guys practice mentally holding their libido in check until the right moment. The mere accomplishment of this feat is amazing, considering we’re apparently just brainless pieces of meat with penises (thanks, ladies). If you knew what your man was thinking while he was balls deep last time, you’d be surprised. Schoolbusses, Swedish furniture sets, getting married, and (my personal favorite) naked Grandma… they all do the trick to keep our minds on other things besides desperately releasing the hostages. And when she does come back down from Big “O” Mountain, there’s a window of maybe –and I’m talkin’ tops, here – three seconds where a brotha’s gotta recover from seeing his Grandma’s sagging tits and hurrying the fuck on up that Mountain.

It’s not easy, and try as we might, we fail more often than not. And God forbid you get yours first, bro. Unless you’ve got that blue pill helping you stay stiff as a tire iron, there ain’t no hope in finishing her off. And when you don’t, God help you.

The new Pussy2.0™ should not become oversensitized after orgasms. It should still stay sensitive, no doubt, but not to the point where it hurts. Maybe – and I’m really diggin’ deep here, God – numb it up a little so that my fellas can really throw their backs into it. You can do it.

Tuna.

Need I say more? Probably.

It’s not that I don’t like the way it smells down there, God. OK, yea, I lied. I hate it. If a girl’s not fresh outta the shower, it’s really hard for me to fully enjoy eating at the Y. I’m looking in your direction here, ladies: it’s a hygiene issue, really. No matter how you serve it, stale clam juice from three days ago is still not my definition of eating out. The new Pussy2.0™ will still have the proper lubricants, but it should have replaceable flavor cartridges in a wide range of fruit and berry flavors. No more Fish Taco flavor (now with real fish!™).

Every twenty eight days, the red tide comes in and ruins a perfectly good sex life. It’s a fact of life, whether you’re regulating with the pill or not. From a marketing perspective, how are you supposed to sell your product when it breaks down and leaves spots all over the bed one week out of four? And then it turns your product into a raging uncontrollable ticking time bomb of bloody discharge, estrogen, and misdirected emotion given the slightest chance? Why, God, WHY?!

Instead of flushing it all out of the tunnel of love, the new Pussy2.0™ will dam it up at the source and slowly mix in trace amounts into the colon spread over the course of all 28 days. Her ass is stinky anyways, God, and I know that one’s probably impossible to fix. Keep her love pouch free of debris, and men everywhere will love you for it. Excess estrogen and other hormones will be burned alive in a compartmentalized internal combustion chamber, and the fumes will be discharged as queefs at the most inopportune times such as family dinners and opera theatres.

“Unto the woman he said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.”

Ouch. I’m assuming childbirth involved no pain before Eve fucked it up. The new Pussy2.0™ will go back to SPEC version 1.0alpha (pre-Fall). As long as the baby doesn’t come out of the breadbasket, we’re OK. The temple of delight needs to stay as taught as possible, with no security compromises. Whatever design you had beforehand, I’m all for it, though, God.

That completes the specifications for the new proposed Pussy2.0™. Although, as with any good product, it’s all about customizing with accessories. That’s why I devised a line of complimentary products that enhance it’s performance.

A special strain of the natural array of microorganisms that live down there will be genetically engineered and replace the existing flora. Those fuckers will break down semen like it’s nobody’s business. I’m talkin’ ’bout in the range of five to ten seconds flat.

Any remaining waste products will be mixed in with Accessory Numero Dos, a built-in frappuccino dispenser. Extra shots of vanilla, hazelnut, and carmel can be obtained from the replaceable flavor cartridges mentioned above.

Finally, the last accessory (for right now) is a one million candlepower LED that glows red when a bitch isn’t interested, and green when she’s horny as hell. Strong enough to shine through any combination of panties and jeans, so a guy’s sure to know exactly what signal she’s giving off. I call it the I’m Horny Light™.

Can I get a patent, bitches?

By Robert Shagwell | Dec 14, 2004 | Permalink |