I got played. Plain and simple. What I thought might have been a good start towards something beautiful fell apart and shattered to pieces. I don’t normally feel this way towards a girl, but when I see someone that beautiful give me that smile, it’s enough to send any man straight to his knees and beg for it.

Not that I ever beg (well, except to take the handcuffs off, but that’s another story), but it kills me to see her with another guy. So when I set up an evening to spend with her, it was to my complete surprise that she answers the phone and tells me she can’t go with me.

“I don’t think I should be going, because I still have a boyfriend.”

“…. Oh.” Yes, just a small, teeny tiny little detail that was conveniently left out until the last possible moment.

She was seeing one of my friend’s buddies at the time, a reasonably nice guy, but a meathead at the same time. She tells me all about what a bad guy he is, and goes off for thirty minutes while I’m trying to host a get-together at my place. How he’s just a shameless jerk who treats her like he owns her and is too good for her, how he doesn’t care blah blah blah. I don’t care. And she calls me up one night and comes over, we cuddle and play on the couch, thinking I’m definitely in. We teased each other to no end, and left unsatisfied but ready for some good, hard lovin’ next time.

And then on the night I diligently planned for for a week, she stiffs me and drops the news that she “never really broke up with him.”

I was just like, “wow. You. are. something. else. You realize that not even four days ago you talked my ear off about what a shithead he is, and now you want to tell me you are going to give up everything we had going for us and be with him? “

“Well, yea. Don’t tell him I said any of that, ok?”

I told her I had to go, and then hung up on her ass.

I don’t know whether to break the news to him, because the more I think about it, the more I think he just got himself into a whole shitload of trouble with that girl. And I think that’s payment enough. She’s going to sleep around on his ass, and I’ve already seen him looking to hook up with with his next catch.

And so the big, ugly wheel turns. Each will get what they deserve in the end.

Because they always do.

By Robert Shagwell | Jun 17, 2005 | Permalink |

I met a girl last week (surprise!). She’s very attractive, blonde, and fit. She’s got nice teeth, a beautiful smile, and a great presence. All great qualities, just ask anyone. But you know what irks me about her? She’s got a fucking Russian accent.

Normally, hearing a girl with a foreign accent just drives my ass up the walls, but this one’s a little different. See, she moved here to the BOI after spending most of her childhood in Russia, and she’s not a US citizen and carries a green card. The point is, English doesn’t come naturally for her.

Which in itself is not a bad thing, mind you. English is a hard mutherfucking language, I don’t care who you are. I lived in Santiago, Chile for the first ten years of my life, and I didn’t speak any English till I was five years old. And believe me, English is so much more damn complicated than it should be, it’s no wonder foreigners fuck it up left and right. And it’s probably why the French hate us so much (see, they suck at language, and life in general).

But I digress. Chances are, any Russkie you meet will be strikingly beautiful, intelligent, but will have an awful attitude, and can play Diablo and drink straight vodka better than her older brother. She’ll probably drive a nice S Class, or her uncle will, as he’s most definitely connected to the Russian mafia. And she’ll probably hate the Cossacks.

Well, same with this girl. She does have something to say, but she doesn’t have a good enough grasp of the English language to properly make herself sound smart. I can tell she’s smart, but with that fucking Russian accent it sounds like a ten-year-old is struggling with formulating a nice, coherent sentence.

It must be innate human nature. Why the fuck do you think Cain killed Abel? Cuz he had an adorable cockney accent that drove all the bitches wild with lust. Why do you think Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton met at ten paces and fired at each other? That’s right. Hamilton had a much bigger penis. Err, I mean accent.

When we hear an accent, we do one of three things. One, if the person is of the opposite sex, we immediately want to mount their leg and start humping it. Two, if the person is of the same sex, we immediately want to buy them a drink after mounting their leg and humping it. Three, if their accent is so thick it makes Antonio Banderas look like a fucking professor of American literature, you will subconsciously condescend them into the same level you would normally place a kid with Down’s or a Californian.

Why does this happen? I have no idea. Maybe it’s the fact that anybody that doesn’t immediately and perfectly act the way we do, we label them as “different” and act over them (note: if it’s a hot woman, replace “act” with “ejaculate").

I can’t go ahead and start correcting her, because if there’s anything that instantly pisses you off, it’s when someone corrects you for a language you don’t really know. Putting her on the defensive isn’t gonna get me far, so I’ll have to concoct some sort of evil plan to get her to speak perfect, fluent English. It’s probably going to have to involve sleep headphones, large doses of cheap American potato vodka, and some good ol’ fashioned American lovemakin’.

She’ll be singing country in no time at all.

By Robert Shagwell | Jun 10, 2005 | Permalink |

Yup, I broke down and got myself a bike. Keep in mind I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before, but with rising gas prices and an increased penchant for getting myself into trouble that I probably shouldn’t, I decided it would be a smart move to get a sport bike. And by smart move, I mean smart like Michael Jackson having a petting zoo for little boys in his pants.

So I got myself a 2001 Kawasaki Ninja, and it’s a monster. Comparable in strength and pure, unadultered, panty-dropping intimidation to the monster in my pants. But not quite.

And like every responsible (ha!) adult male citizen with a slight middle-age crisis in the works, I went ahead and bought a nice helmet, some gloves, and a wicked hot white leather racing jacket. Oh, and you can’t forget the mirror aviators. I look like a black Eric Estrada (minus the tight pants and the slight faggotry), and the bitches dig it like I dig chicken.

Have you ever noticed that hot bitches love to ride on the back of motorcycles? Well, of course you have. Because you’re always staring at their asses as they lean forward hugging the man in front of them.

Well, that’s me now. Some nice boobs pressed up against my back, a hot bitch with her thong showing behind me, and the envious stares of hundreds of goons on the street.

Wanna go for a ride?

By Robert Shagwell | Jun 6, 2005 | Permalink |

What’s so hard about a happy ending? Seriously? Have you ever had one of those hot, passionate nights where you knew you were gonna be tangled in a mess of hot flesh, bedsheets, and/or stuffed animals, only to have it be abruptly cut short?

Yea, not fun. For fuck’s sake; I know you wanna bone, and you know mighty well you can’t resist a man like me. So what the fuck? Get on with the show already, hun. Yea, yea, foreplay, yada yada yada. I know, I know, heating up the oven before putting anything in.

But where does the line stop? When the oven hits the target temperature, what is the only logical next step? Preheat some more just for old times’ sake? Fuck that! I want some resolution, some end to the mounting tension. I want to be satisfied with the result of all that pre-climactic foreplay.

Obviously, it happened just now. She cut out and left because she’s leaving town for a whole month and needs to make up lost time with all her friends before she goes. Needless to say, the only thing she’ll be making up with me is a sandwich on her way out my door.

“I should really go. It’s getting late, and I told my friend I would meet up with her.”
[Audibly groaning with disapproval] “But your… you… your shirt is off! You can’t stop now! You serious?”
“Yea, I’m sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll come and cook you dinner next time. Deal?”
[Grumpy unintelligible mumbling] “Mmm, fine. But it better be chicken.”

The real question is: what’s going on in a woman’s head as all this drama unfolds? Yes, you’re in my bedroom with the door closed for a reason. Yes, you did choose the Marvin Gaye CD for a reason. Yes, I unhooked your bra with one hand and got you on top of me, kissing me for a reason. You’re moaning. For a reason.

That reason was not to see my nuts turn a dark blue hue. Oh no. Not at all. As my uncle would say, “don’t start the engine if you’re not going nowhere.”

My point exactly. Save yourself the time, and mine too, by all means, if you’re gonna pull a stunt like this one on me. My only hope is that she can cook me some ribs.

Mmm. Ribs.

I could forgive her – wipe her slate right clean – if she could whip up some tasty, bad-ass ribs.

By Robert Shagwell | Jun 3, 2005 | Permalink |

I’m going to be straight up with you. I know you’re excited. I know you’ve waited six months for me to come back. I know you lost hope in what you once thought was a great little site.

I know all this. Which is why I’m back.

Truth is, my ambitions for this site were ridiculously high. I mean, how many other bloggers out there seriously spend two or three hours per post? The level of quality I was aiming for demanded a lot of my time and, unfortunately, that time wasn’t so easy to come by anymore. Kinda like finding cheap hookers without a nasty mole or a bad eye. Hard to come by.

So the format of this little here site will now take a different path. I can no longer spend that much time perfecting every last phrase, optimizing every last picture; you get the idea. What this means for you, end user, is that you won’t see as many pictures, and the posts won’t be as long.

I hear the bickering, the whining, and the pitiful pleas. If you bitches paid for content, I’d gladly give you what you seem to like best: A big, black Dick.

And trust me, I’d give it to you every day, and make it nice and long for you.

Cause, you know, I’m the man like that.

To quote Ron Burgundy, “I don’t know if you know this or not, but I’m kind of a big deal.”

So stay tuned, bitches, for the Dick is back in action.

By Robert Shagwell | Jun 2, 2005 | Permalink |