I’ve been packing away for the last week or so, making sure I have everything a playa needs to maximize the pimping at my vacation destination: Rio de Janeiro. I’ll be on an extended leave of absense for a while, but I might periodically update my site as necessary if I have some juicy details that have to be shared with the world.

I plan on hitting the beach every day (it’s the height of the summer season there), then taking a week or so to travel by bus to different neighboring cities and visiting old friends. You can bet your ass I’ll be droppin’ Gs on the hot thong-wearing bitches while I’m down there, too. I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again: there are no fat girls in Brazil. They’re all tan, fit, and gorgeous. As soon as I get back here, I have a feeling I’ll be in hottie withdrawal for a while.

GO ON A DIET AND HIT THE TREADMILL YOU FAT AMERICAN PIGS.

Phew. Where was I? I’m a samba-fucking-master, and I’m a quick learner when it comes to dancing. God, it’s so fun. Everybody sings and dances along with these upbeat, happy samba songs and I can’t get enough of it. Maybe I’ll teach the girls down there a little thing or two about grindin’.

I’m staying with a girl I met in an all-inclusive resort in Bahia last time I was there. She’s 26 now, has her own dentistry practice, and is starting to teach temporal jaw lectures at a university in Sao Paulo. She’s half Persian and half Brazilian, so you know she’s damn fucking fine. She’s got perfect teeth, a perfect bubble butt, and a perfect rack. I have a nagging feeling my teeth aren’t the only thing she’s gonna polish while I’m down there.

Unfortunately, I won’t be able to stay long enough to enjoy Carnival, but that’s fine with me. As long as I’m outta there by the time Lent hits, I’ll be A-OK. In the meantime, I might have to go to a couple of rowdy soccer games. If there’s none, I might have to start looking elsewhere.

…at least I don’t think they have rodeos in Latin America.

I might have to change that.

Bitches.

By Robert Shagwell | Jan 19, 2005 | Permalink |

I had a pretty disturbing little dream last night.

In its essence, it was Ron Jeremy singing a cover of “So Much For My Happy Ending” by Avril Lavigne.

I’ll let you mull that one over a little bit.

Let’s analyze this using the Dream Moods Dream Dictionary:

To see a famous singer in your dream, represents harmony and some divine influence or vibrations. It indicates glorification of the human spirit. Consider also your general impression of this singer and how those specific qualities may be triggered by someone or some situation in your waking life.

Therefore, I have some harmony, indicating glorification of the human spirit. Moreover, my general impression of the singer is pretty high. This ugly ass dude has an MBA, and yet pursues his true dream by becoming a pornstar, shagging lady after bangin’ lady for the entertainment of countless millions.

To see a celebrity in your dream, represents your beliefs and understanding about him or her. Something in you waking life has triggered these similar beliefs and feelings. It is not uncommon that your obsession with a certain celebrity may carry over onto your dream world. Celebrities are often seen as heroes and all that is mighty. Also consider any puns within the name.

Wait a minute. Obsession? All that is mighty? God, I don’t think they could have nailed it any better. I think that finally taking a hot bitch home after countless months of monogamy has done something to spark that old flame in me. It might signify a new beginning of sorts for this guy. Who knows?

To hear a song in your dream, indicates that you are looking at things from a spiritual viewpoint. Your future path is a happy one with good health and much wealth. Consider the words to the song that you are dreaming about for additional messages.

Hmmm. I wonder what “additional messages” we could be talking about… I’m pretty giddy about the good health and much wealth part, too.

Looks like a successful dream to me.

By Robert Shagwell | Jan 11, 2005 | Permalink |

If there’s one thing I’m already hating about 2005, it’s the sheer lack of originality being ushered by the new year. Retards left and right are not only saying stupid shit, but their friends are actually repeating what they say in a lame effort to sound cool.

I’ll tell you right now my biggest fucking pet peeve ever. And that’s the word “whatnot".

I could punch a hole in a kitten just hearing that word in my head.

Anybody who uses that word is failing miserably at an attempt to sound smart and sophisticated. As far as I’m concerned, you forfeit all rights to breathe oxygen once that stupid redneck word comes out yo’ mouth. You sound like a two-bit wangsta wannabe using your new “Million-Dollar Vocabulary” CD you bought off the infomercials one night while beating off to Girls Gone Wild commercials. Using “…and stuff” or “…and shit” are still as cool as the day Samuel L. set foot on this planet. Better yet: don’t use any of it at all. End your sentences properly (read: use a period, not a “whatnot"). I’ve heard some jerkoffs use that stupid word at least four times in a conversation, and it took everything I had to keep my arm from pulling their tongues out and strangling them with it. Friends don’t let friends say “whatnot". If you ever hear that blaspheme come out of your mouth again, do us all a favor and suffocate yourself.

I don’t hate cell phones. I don’t hate people, either (OK, maybe just a few sardine-brained good-for-nothings below). But I do hate it when people talk into their phones LOUD ENOUGH SO THAT EVERYONE CAN HEAR HOW INCREDIBLY COOL THEY ARE. I think we need to take some action; next time you see some wanna-be socialite flappin’ their yap at the restaurant or the movie or while in line or ANYWHERE within earshot of a human ear, grab their phone and smash it on the ground into a million little pieces for me and yell “YOU ARE NOT IMPORTANT.”

I hate it when people don’t hang toilet paper with the paper flowing over the front. Seriously, why the fuck would I want to reach underneath for some TP? Think about that for a second. And if you’re a member of the dark side, go curb yourself.

I hate people with bad manners. If your silverware clinks on your plate one more time I’m gonna proper fuck you, you hear me? You don’t even want to know what I’ll do if you start scraping that plate of yours. Let’s just say your noisy-ass mouth will be getting lots of lovin from this table leg over here.

I hate people who “find deeper meaning” from lyrics force-fed through Clear Channel’s media whoring. U2 and Nelly absolutely cannot alter the assertions holding your personal plane of existence together. Don’t even get me started on your wonderful your new one-hit wonder is.

I hate how you oversaturate and ruin every stupid fucking Hot Topic trend. (Maddox)

I absolutely fucking hate people who can’t spell properly, much less coherently form a nice, structured sentence. Go back to kindergarden, bitches.

I hate those stupid fucking assholes hogging THE ENTIRE RIGHT SHOULDER while on their bikes. Sidewalks work just fine, cockbites. In fact, rumor has it that THAT’S WHAT THEY’RE THERE FOR. Cheese ‘n Rice! Next time I have to swerve halfway across the other lane for your fat ass I’m gunning it and dooring your ass at 50.

I hate smokers. No, you’re not Vincent Vega and Jules Winnfield from Pulp Fiction. Therefore, you can’t possiblybe cool. Therefore, stop pretending you are. If you’re not at least 50ft away from the back entrance of any establishment (you’re cut off from using any front door), I’ll off you myself.

I hate how white trash “associates” at Wal-Mart have the “How Can I Help You Today” logo on their backs.

I hate any male over 18 that wears white athletic shoes not in direct proximity to a gym or a basketball court. KIDS WEAR TENNIS SHOES. ADULTS DON’T.

I hate any female who worships loves remotely likes Sex and the City and dramatizes her life to simulate four imaginary sluts’ imaginary romps in a marketing executive’s dreamt-up idealized environment. Smart and successful women GO SOMEWHERE, not endlessly babble about whatever the screenwriter dreams up on one of his peyote trips. YOU ARE NOT A CHARACTER ON A STUPID SITCOM, so stop pretending you’re smart and sophisticated and you’ll get somewhere as soon as you get to polishing my knob off.

I hate people who put me on speakerphone without warning.

I hate ANYONE that can’t remember to say please and thank you. I’m looking at you, douchestain. A little courtesy goes a long, long way, my friend.

I hate people that argue religion or politics. Do you think you’ll ever admit defeat and concede to their side? Well, apparently you think they do. Shut up and cook me something, instead.

I hate people who give me a four-minute schpiel after I ask them “How are you?”

I hate people women who can’t merge in traffic. That means you.

I hate people guys who wear enough cologne to suffocate an ox. One spray max. I don’t care if you’re a Guido or you just sweat a lot. Stick to it.

Holy shit. Looking back up at this list, I think every single entry started with “I hate people".

Cat’s out of the bag, huh?

By Robert Shagwell | Jan 10, 2005 | Permalink |

The music was playing, the hot tub was bubbling, the tequila was flowing, and hotties were coming in by the truckloads. These are the perfect ingredients for a perfect house party, and guess who was working the floor last night?

That’s right. The Dick.

Out on the prowl, with invisible feelers testing the waters with all the ladies; a highly complex and sensitive operation flawlessly running on autopilot. It doesn’t even take any brainpower; it’s automatic. A little flirt there, a well-timed pun here, a touch on the arm there; I must be a magician. With a sneaky little fucking grin.

I jump in the hot tub with these hot little dark-haired twins. They’re sporting some very nice bras from Victoria’s Secret and some even classier little numbers below. They’re just too hot to be true, and they’re sitting here near naked in the hot tub with me, one in each arm. Like a fiery sunrise preluding a hot day, it dawns on me that it’s going to be a very good night.

Jose was making sure everyone was having fun with body shots. Nose-job Becky was over, and it didn’t take long before I was slowly licking the salt off the nape of her neck and licking her lips to get to the lime she was delightfully hiding from me in her mouth.

Sigh. Tequila is a beautiful thing.

We start playing some card games on the kitchen counter, and I make my way around to this hot little bod named Cassie. She’s got perfect hair, a perfect body, and a perfect face. Like a specimen from The Hefner’s mansion. And she’s smiling at me.

Like a quietly composed Napoleon Dynamite would say at the competition: “Yesssssssss.”

I start doing my thing. I give her a quick comeback after one of her jokes, slightly insulting to let her know I’m not gonna treat her like a princess right off the bat like every other dude out there does. It piques her interest, and I continue to appear apathied and indifferent to the whole thing. She turns her posture towards me and uncrosses her legs. She twirls a stray strand of hair from her beautiful face.

Yup. Hooked.

The game continues, and I place my hand on her knee when we share a laugh. She gives me a fleeting glance, unconsciously biting her bottom lip. God, how I love that.

She’s laughing at all my jokes, she’s making plenty of eye contact, she’s showing both sets of teeth when she smiles, and her body posture is imitating mine. She’s touching my arm at a slowly increasing rate. Her hand finds her way to my thigh a little later. I’m in like Flynn.

The door knocks, and guess who shows up at the front door? That’s right. The Ex and another boy-toy, after I specifically told her not to come near here. She threatens to call the police on a faux noise complaint if she’s not let in, and so we oblige. She looks specifically for me, and quickly sees my nice little situation with Cassie. I hadn’t even got up. I just took Cassie in my arms and started kissing her behind the ears and neck, which sent The Ex CAREENING out the back door into the back yard. She was so pissed her reddened face was venting steam in the cold night air.

But you can be sure I didn’t give a fuck. I told her ass to stay away, and what does she do? She can’t help but to start becoming obsessive over me, and the fact that she finally saw me flirting seriously with another girl sent her over the edge.

Her first instinct was to try and find some guy to get on and make out with in front of me. I had already had this coldly calculated beforehand and made sure every guy there shot her down like a limp duck. It was like pinball; she’d bounce from guy to guy, trying to get anyone to get them to make out with her. And nobody was giving a shit. They gave her the cold shoulder, the million-mile stare, and the are-you-fucking-kidding-me looks left and right. Cassie and I just laughed as she bounced to and fro to every last guy in the house.

I take up and leave with Cassie, abandoning the sorry sight of my obsessively dependent Ex. It hasn’t even been two weeks and already she’s starting to act desperate. It’s a sorry sight.

So I’m in the car with Cassie, and she’s rubbing my legs and snaking her fingers slyly along my shirt and neck. The car can’t seem to go fast enough. She breaks into an awful fit of coughing, and I’m turned off a little. “Are you OK?”

“Oh. It’s just that I’m still recovering from the bronchitis I got last week.”

“You mean… So you’re… You’re highly contagious, aren’t you?”

“Well, yea. A little bit. OK, actually a lot. I don’t think I should be kissing you.”

“If that’s what you think is best, then I’m down. Is this your house?”

We pull into her driveway, and it’s a nice gated house.

“You must be an heiress. Your house is beautiful!”

“It’s not mine. I’m living with my parents right now. You’re gonna have to be real quiet.”

The record skips then slowly dies down.

What. The. Fuck. This girl is easily mid-twenties. She must have had either a severe case of bronchitis, or a severe case of personality problems.

I can deal with the former. “I’m down for a little sneakiness tonight,” I grin.

The front door is surprisingly noiseless. We sneak past the master bedroom, down the hallway, down the stairs and into the lower level. My hands can’t help themselves to her rounded ass and her sexy thighs. If I get caught, I’m gonna be caught red-fucking-handed tonight.

She locks the door behind her and flips off the light. She undoes my belt, tosses my pants in the corner, and rips my shirt off like a sexy animal. She wants me. I’m naked, and she pushes me onto the bed, pouncing on me like a tiger. With huge tits.

She’s kissing me up and down my chest and neck, carefully avoiding my face. Her hands are starting to do some amazing things. She’s solidly rubbing my stomach, and I can feel her warm hands send wonderful sensations on my belly.

Then I feel a gurgle down there. Whoa. And not a good gurgle, either. Shit, the chicken quesadillas I had earlier are not agreeing with Jose inside, and it feels like I’m probably gonna have to–

Shit.

“What’s wrong, baby? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

My face is pale like daffodils. “I think I just ate one and he just stuck his head out the other end.”

I take off down the hallway naked with my hand halfway up my ass, fighting the incoming rectal onslaught.

The diarrhea doesn’t stop.

Yup, I somehow fuck it up. What happened to in like Flynn? She knocks on the door, checking up on me every so often, but she finally goes to bed when I refuse to come back out. I pass out in the tub.

* * *

I cautiously peek my head out the door the next morning. I’ve gotta make a clean getaway.

“Why– hello there!”

Her mom is fucking ironing shirts right outside my bathroom door.

“Mom! I want you to meet Robert! He spent the night last night.”

“Hi Robert, nice to meet you! Why don’t you come on out and say hi to the rest of the family?”

I’m fucking naked, bitch. Touch me and I’ll probably shit all over those shirts.

“Cassie, could I uh… borrow a towel or something?”

“Oh no, you didn’t get anything on the–”

“–NO! I mean no, of course not. I just need my, uh, clothes.”

Mother looks at me with a glance more frigid than a polar bear’s toenails.

Will this endless humiliation never end?

Needless to say, I make my walk of shame past Cassie’s mother, upstairs past the kitchen where I’m sheepishly introduced to her father and brother and sister before I finally get outside to my car and speed off like a lunatic.

I’m don’t think I can ever call her again.

By Robert Shagwell | Jan 9, 2005 | Permalink |

Let me let you in on a little secret. This guy likes himself a good time, sometimes at the expense of another. Sometimes the profit margin is so colossal, though, that it null and voids that expense. It’s times like those that add loop-dee-loops to the great ride of life.

I’m prone to doing some pretty fucking stupid stuff. But there’s always a payoff; there’s always a reason for my behavior. And this time… well, you’ll see why.

Once upon a time there were these mean ass bitches over at my place, and we were all drinking and having a merry old time. The hot tub was on, the girlies were getting wet, and the alcohol was flowing like the Euphrates. These girls were real hotties, but they had a real attitude problem.

You know the type: The World Owes Me A Favor skanks that think every breath they bestow upon this earth is a miracle of their endless grace.

They start doing everything wrong: they pour alcohol into the hot tub, get the couches all wet, start being really loud and obnoxious, and start making fun of my crew. Yea, my own crew, at my own house. Not good.

We decided to learn ‘em a lesson. Nobody fucks with the Dick and his friends.

I targeted the hottest and meanest skank out of their little group and started putting some moves on her, verbally poking and prodding my way into her good side. I took it slow, but a fleeting touch of the arm here, a toothy smile there, and and occasional touch on her knee when we laughed started changing her mind.

My buddies were acting as wingmen; they were each assigned a different girl and were told not to have them leave their sight. My main man LB, who took the brunt of most of the bitches’ rude remarks, was reserved a special position.

She started loosening up. I was searching for an in the whole time, and I found it. Turns out the bitch was really into horses, and I recalled a few funny stories about my time in Jackson Hole. We started hitting it off, and one thing led to another. Yada yada yada, as Seinfeld likens it.

I follow her into my room. We’re kissing heavily, and the clothes start coming off. She pushes me onto the bed and strips me down completely, except for my socks.

“Hey!” I complain. “If I have to keep my socks on, so do you.”

“Fine then, big boy. She strips completely for me, except for her little pink socks. Her body is perfectly sculpted. There’s not an ounce of fat, and everything is a miracle of fitness and proportion. Yet there’s something obscurely comical about seeing someone naked while wearing socks. I can’t contain myself, and start busting up laughing. Hard.

She gives me a stern look cold enough to freeze vodka. “You don’t exactly look too swell, either, honey.”

I’m snorting with laughter now. “Pink? I mean, come on, seriously. Seriously.”

She jumps on me with an evil smirk, and proceeds to do things with her hands and lips that shut me up real quick.

I slap her ass real hard, and go to work on her. I have a hard time getting myself in her. She’s so tiny it feels like trying to fuck a thimble.

“You’re not a virgin, are you?”

“Ha! I’m as clean the winter snow, buddy.”

Hm. Fine, then. I fucking throw myself hard into her. She lets out a whimper of pain, and then a deep moan of satisfaction. She likes it. As clean as a chimney sweeper, I’d say.

She digs her fingers into my chest and starts rubbing herself back and forth on me. She throws her hair back in a lavish display of shimmery, shiny dark hair as she grabs her perfect tits. It looks like a Herbal Essences commercial from my point of view, except she’s moaning pretty loud and she’s actually fornicating with something besides a shampoo bottle.

I’m getting her pretty hot, and she’s getting ready to come. “Don’t. You. Fucking. Stop.” Her fingernails are digging into my chest. Yup. She’s enjoying herself.

Not for long though. Payback’s a bitch, bitch.

“You know where my favorite horses are from?” I ask nonchalantly.

She gives me a puzzled look as she begins shuddering her throes of orgasms.

“RODEO!” I yell, and a hidden LB suddenly leaps from the closet in a frenzied cacophony of yippie-ka-yays and yeeee-haws and mounts the bitch like a bronco and holds on for dear life. On cue, my crew busts through the door and yell RODEO!

“ONE! TWO! THREE!” he starts yelling as he waves his cowboy hat around the air with the biggest fucking smile I’ve ever seen.

The bitch has NO idea how to react. A huge near-naked black man jumps out of the closet wearing tighty-whiteys, a cowboy hat, and some white socks (a nice touch, I might add), and starts riding her like a fucking horse whilst she’s fucking.

“FOUR! FIVE!” Her primal instict is to start to struggle and break free, and she starts bucking like a wild fucking bronco!

“Atta kid LB! HOLD ON BUDDY YOU CAN DO IT!” I scream with laughter. All the boys are hootin’ and hollerin’ at the door, and I’m desperately trying to keep her from jumping off, while LB is riding her fucking bareback.

“SIX! SEVEN! I’M COMING HOME, BOYS!”

The cheering, coupled with the laughter, coupled with terrified screams from her aghast friends, coupled with the crazed laughing of LB as he rode the naked bitch with the pink socks as she’s getting proper fucked… man. If there was ever one time I would pick as a victory, I’d call this one a fan-fucking-tastic winner.

“EIGHT!” We turn to the door and give our best smiles.

Click goes the camera flash. One for the record books, bitches.

LB falls off to the floor, clutching his stomach with his signature high-pitched giddy laugh. The bitches (”don’t worry, don’t worry, it’s gonna be ok, honey, it’s gonna be ok“) rally around their traumatized friend, and hurriedly throw her a blanket and rush her out the door. My friends are all on the floor, laughing and laughing and laughing at what a fucked-up sight they just witnessed.

I throw on some shorts, and LB and I take off after them as the girls take off the front door into the street. We’re next to naked, chasing them in the dark. All you can see is white shorts and white underwear two sizes too small floating down the street.

“Wait! You bitches forgot your socks! Your socks!”

“Keep the fucking socks, you ASSHOLES!”

They’re hanging from the arch of the front doorway to this day.

By Robert Shagwell | Jan 6, 2005 | Permalink |

Let me tell you a little something about breaking up. You become so close and so good at communicating while you’re together that once you sever the ties it feels like you’re not communicating enough. Everything starts falling to pieces because of the communication breakdown.

Suddenly, it feels like the other person hates you. They’re not calling, so it must mean they’re out fucking anything with a heartbeat and one good eye. They must not give a fuck any more, because they would have definitely called by now.

Shit, they’re probably out with someone just to try and get back at you. So what do you do? You go and nail some fatty in a flailing attempt at retribution.

And it comes back and bites you in the ass. Again and again. Your cred goes down, your appeal withers, and your reputation with the ladies is nullified.

You try and call, but she’s not answering. She must be out and about again, having a good time. You’re at home, looking at the TV waiting for something to happen. Maybe they’ll come over later?

They don’t show up. You think of how pathetic you must be. You think of how hot they must be looking tonight.

The funny part is, you’re both at home, thinking the same thing. Both are far too proud and afraid to call for fear of looking desperate. But you’re both hurting inside. You’re both in the same situation, falsely assuming what the other is doing.

They’re still the same person, regardless of the breakup. They’re not out to get at you. They’re in the same boat. If only there was a mirror showing what the other was up to, there’d be more love going around. Because the mirror doesn’t always show your own reflection.

Keep in touch with that someone.

There’s been too much invested to throw it all away.

By Robert Shagwell | Jan 5, 2005 | Permalink |

I come to with my hand in my throat, trying to gag myself. I’m kneeling around the john; puke is all over my hand and the toilet seat. My toilet seat. My bathroom. Must be home.

BWAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRFFF.

My watch reads 5:00am. I can barely make it out because my head is spinning so fast. My stomach’s on fire, and my night is NOT going very well.

I guess didn’t know what I was in for. I made it to 20 shots, supposedly.

I wore a long-sleeve shirt emblazoned with “wanted: meaningful overnight relationship“. Didn’t do me much good, I guess. The only date I got that night was with the commode.

I can barely function. Nausea is taking over. Breathing is hard, my eyes are blurred, my head is screaming in pain, and my stomach demands to purge everything.

Dry heaving hurts like hell. I continue for a half hour.

I wipe my mouth and try standing. Shaky. Fuck I’m drunk.

When I finally prove to my legs they’re capable of standing, I get up. I look up at the mirror and get a good look at my sorry condition.

I look fine, except for the fact that I’ve got permanent marker covering the entire left side of my face. I look like a wolverine.

A very pissed, drunk, and nauseous wolverine.

Oh no, here we go again. BWAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRFFF.

I notice a digital camera on the countertop. I flip through all fifty pictures of the evening, and the memories come flooding back.

The Cactus, The Hangar, The Bistro, Hannah’s, 10th St Station, Broadway Bar, and lastly (and most vaguely) Sudz.

My crew beside me, rollin’ down the streets like we owned ‘em.

A shot of 151. Too late to ask what it was.

The Three Wise Men beating the shit out of my liver.

Tequila for everybody. Shortages of lime. Sour faces.

Good times.

Me pissing into a flowerpot.

Throwing up into said flowerpot, as well.

Shit. BWWAAAAAAAARRRFFFF.

I blacked out completely at two. As soon as I got up to stand and leave, the alcohol must have rushed in and taken my body hostage. In fact, I don’t even remember walking out of that door.

I woke up this morning, and everything smells like alcohol. My head is fine, my stomach is a little gurgly (but stable), and I am feeling OK. I drank a lot of water, and I’m going to spend a long time in bed recovering.

The rowdiest birthday I’ve had in a while, and that’s a “fer sure".

Rowdy enough to turn all my sentences into fragments, I guess.

FUCK. I’m still drunk.

By Robert Shagwell | Jan 4, 2005 | Permalink |

It’s fun being sober once in a while. Although I’ll be the first to admit that playing board games trashed is also a good time. I had the pleasure of playing some good old- (and new-) fashioned board games last night, with a nice group of friends.

We started off the evening with Taboo, where your teammates try and guess your word without you fucking it up and saying the other four to describe it. Some were pretty easy, but I got fucked when I got “jalopy". Seriously, dubya tee eff, mate? All the others were pretty simple, and we had a sharp group of people playing so it got pretty stale.

We moved on to Family Feud on DVD, which was a little different. Nothing like seeing Al from Home Improvement telling you how shitty you did on the lightning round. Considering he’s stooping this low though, I don’t much give a shit. Whoever conducts surveys for the show must go to Preston, Idaho, because the surveys are about as accurate as a blind trap shooter ("AAAGH MY LEG!"). Think of a ball smaller than your head. NOT ONE FUCKING PERSON THOUGHT OF MAYBE TRYING A FUCKING BASEBALL. Oh, but a whiffle ball was on there. I couldn’t take it anymore, so we moved on to Scattergories.

Four extra girls (including new-nosed Becky) came over at this point, and we had plenty of action. Me and Becky teamed up, and even though she’s a little dense when it comes to these word games, I can still forgive her. I put down some classics, though:

Something you’re afraid of? “WMD” (in quotes)
Something you put in your mouth? Long banana, little dildo (Yea, all Becky on that one. Weird.)
Something that has spots? “wittle weopards” (speech impediments apparently don’t count. DAMMIT!).
Television star? Janet Jackson, but they didn’t give it to me even though her boob probably has a better career than she does. I should have put Janet’s Jugs.
Reason you’re late? Just because (count it!)
Something you hide? Orgasms! Weeee!

Tomorrow’s my birthday. I’m saving myself for tomorrow night. My entire crew is taking me out downtown and enjoying the cheap drinks while I get shitty. Hopefully I don’t utilize the beer goggles and start hitting on a transvestite (again).

Quagmire: Hey there little lady. Why don’t you turn around and show me your Lower East Side.
Woman (in deep voice): Sure.
Quagmire: Whoa. Transvestite! Back off. –Wait a minute… pre-op or post-op?
Woman: Pre-op.
Quagmire: Whoa. Transvestite! Back off.

If any of you want to give me some nice birthday presents, you can all eat a dick. I don’t need your paypal donations or birthday e-cards or an iPod (fuckers). You CAN tell me some neat-o birthday stories if you’d like. Like this one.

When I turned sixteen, I had come home from snowboarding with my brother and some friends, and when I arrived, I got down on my hands and knees and started kissing and cooing our little weiner dog for approximately five minutes. Then out of nowhere twenty people jumped out from behind the couches and yelled SURPRISE!

I got a lot of shit for my “new girlfriend” for a long time.

In other news, Anna was discharged from the hospital from the alcohol poisoning with some stitches on her head. Apparently, she’s “never drinking again.” We’ll see how long that lasts.

Will report back after the debauchery.

By Robert Shagwell | Jan 2, 2005 | Permalink |

No, I’m not a happy camper.

Things got off to a sour start when my 11-0 Boise State Broncos (10) lost the Liberty Bowl against the fucking Louisville Cardinals (8). With a game-ending interception in the endzone as the time expired, by the way.

No, not a happy camper at all. The absolute worst way to finish a perfect 22-game winning streak? Oh hey, look up “Boise State Liberty Bowl Loss on ESPN” in the dictionary. It’ll be there. Records upon records were being broken. Read the full game write-up, while you’re at it.

The night finished in one glorious moment: I had to rush one of my close girl friends – we’ll call her Anna – to the emergency room because of serious alcohol poisoning and a skull laceration from when she fell.

Happy fucking New Year’s! Umm, Ms. Social Worker, can I get a kiss? You can pretend I’m Dick Clark.

Anna was one of the only people that I trusted enough to tell her about breaking up with my ex, and she helped me through those decisions. She’s probably my ex’s best friend. And here I am, rushing downtown, zig-zagging through traffic, running a nauseous amount of red lights, checking for a pulse with her drunk, overacting bitch friends. She stops breathing again, and I know it’s not good. I’m searching for a pulse, and it’s intermittent. The girls in the back seat are screaming. They’re freaking out. ANNA! WAKE UP! WAKE UP ANNA! BREATHE! DICK GO FASTER!

“She’s going to be alright, just keep her windpipe clear and I’ll go faster AS SOON AS YOU JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP BACK THERE before I strangle you both with your seatbelts, you fucking no-good skanks.”

Happy fucking New Year’s, bitches.

She was in rough shape. She had urinated all over herself, was throwing up inside the car (thankfully, I was driving her friend’s car), and she was bleeding everywhere from a cut she had incurred when she fell as we were trying to load her sorry ass into the car. The hospital staff was helpful and clear-headed, albeit jaded from such a nice “present” to usher in the new year.

Her so-called “friends” had zero idea how to spell her name, her DOB, or any emergency contact information. Her purse, her keys: nowhere to be found, even after a half-hour of searching back at the house. She couldn’t respond verbally because of her sorry condition, and without consent the unit couldn’t legally do anything except give her a blood test.

Then the ex walks through the sliding doors with the dude she cheated on me with. Hand in hand.

Happy fucking New Year’s.

The clock strikes midnight, and the girls all give each other kisses. And what does she do? She fucking throws her tongue into his mouth like I’m not watching. And you can be sure he didn’t give a fuck about any if it, either.

Happy merry super-blissful bitch-ass gleeful mutherfucking New Year.

We’re gonna have a sit-down when she gets better. That was no way to “get over a guy” – who happens to be one of my good buddies, no less, and had shown up half-way into the party. She’s got some problems and she needs to learn how to deal with them. She needs help.

I’ll try.

As soon as I can get over this fucking disaster of a holiday.

By Robert Shagwell | Jan 1, 2005 | Permalink |