I decide to invite Georgia Girl and a couple of her friends to accompanty me to the country club, where we go swimming in the pool and sip mojitos under the sunbrellas. We have a great time; I throw her off the side of the pool, we have a swimming contest, and then the girls lay out in the sun to try and work on their tans while I sit next to her and make wonderful conversation.

She’s smart, she’s funny, and she just loves to laugh. She seems so carefree. So relaxed. Like nothing can – or ever will – bother her. And yet deep down inside I can see she’s a cynic; she’s a thinker. Her eyes dart back and forth smoothly, taking every last bit of information in. She’s got smarts.

She gets up, stretching her perfect, tanned figure out in her white swimming suit, then gives me one of those looks as she dives elegantly into the pool. She swims the whole length underwater, and once she reaches the other end, she comes up slowly out of the water, nose first. Just like in the movies, her hair falls straight back as she wipes the excess water off her face. Her boobs are floating on the water. I catch my mouth dropping slightly, so I hit the diving board.

I completely fuck up the one-and-a-half, belly flopping with the intensity and splendor of a drunk sea lion. After a few choice curse words muttered underwater, I come back up to find her laughing out loud at me – accompanied by her friends and like thirteen kids that suddenly materialized out of nowhere. “It was on purpose, weirdos. You act like I hate bellyflopping like Shamoo or something.”

Thank God for the rum in my system, otherwise that might have hurt more than it did. I’m sure I’ll feel that one tomorrow. I swim over to her, and she’s smiling ear to ear. I take her hands and pull her over to the corner. I pull her close and I stare into her eyes, looking deep inside to see what I can find. I see genuine happiness, a little sarcasm, and a spark. That’s good enough for me.

I lean in and kiss her on the forehead. She smiles at me, smirks maliciously, and throws her arms around me as she delves into a deep, huge kiss. I would have said something to the kids, but I wasn’t about to stop this girl. I just put my hands on her hips and let her do all the work. By the time both of us came up for air, we were both smiling like idiots. And her friends were all just shaking their heads with the absurdity of it all.

I took her downtown later that night to a new creperie I’ve heard about, and we enjoyed our dinner. My phone was ringing off the hook, but I dared not answer it. I knew my crew was itchin’ to go downtown and get my ass drunk (apparently, it’s a great time. Or so I hear). We got a complimentary dessert crepe from the owner (you’re so cute together!), and she chowed down on it as if it was going out of style. Apparently, this girl knows exactly what she likes, and goes for it. Which is good. Especially if she likes me.

I take her back home to my pad, and I pour a couple cocktails as I put one of my favorite romantic comedies. She cuddles up next to me, and we laugh and joke the whole way through. I’d tell you which one, but then I’d have to kill you. It’s one of my secrets. The girls absolutely love it, and even though I know every single line in the movie, I still laugh out loud. By the time the credits roll, she heads to the bathroom to freshen up (probably some bubblegum to mask her breath). When she comes back, she smirks at me, pushes me over on my couch, and jumps on me.

Oh, shit. It’s on.

She attacks me with kisses. She’s swirling her sly tongue in and out of my mouth, and it’s driving me crazy with desire. I pull her hair back and kiss and nibble on her neck, and she lets out an audible moan of surprise and satisfaction. She likes it.

I slowly let my hands work their way down to the back of her neck, then to her shoulders, then to her arms and her side. I start working my way back up towards the finish line at the Twin Peaks when she grabs my hands and shakes her head not even close.

What the fuck? This is supposed to be turbo-dating! According to my calculations, day two would approximate out to two months, and by the evening it would be pushin’ three! So what gives?

Without missing a beat, my hands work their way around and non-threateningly back up to her shoulders and neck. She’s kissing me with definite passion, that’s for sure, but now I can’t tell what her motives are anymore.

Does she just want to be make-out buddies? Is she waiting for later? Is she a virgin? Does she have a fucking douchebag boyfriend back home she’s guilty about? My mind is racing, and I can’t even feel my lips moving anymore.

“What’s wrong? Is it because – oh, that.”

“No, no, it was my mistake. I shouldn’t have even done something so crude. I apologize. This is only our second day knowing each other, and I keep forgetting that.”

She looks down, pulling her hair away from her eyes. She sits down. “There’s something I…forgot to tell you.”

Oh, God. Here it comes.

continued tomorrow…

Today’s Daily Challenge: Give out a High-Five-Who’s-Gay. That means every time you see someone you know (buddies, coworkers, bosses, neighbors, and grandparents), go ahead and give ‘em some skin, my man. I’m talkin’ at least twice per conversation ("Long time no see! High-five! Leavin’? Ok, well, high-five, then!"). Just when you get everybody feeling good about themselves with all these rad high-fives, approach someone you don’t like and right after asking them for a high-five, right at the apex exclaim, “Who’s gay!?”

They’ll sit there stunned with their hand straight up in the air while everybody stares and laughs.

Congratulations! You win!

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 28, 2005 | Permalink |

What do you do with a girl who’s only in town for a week? That is the question I have been asking myself over and over again. Do you take her out to a dinner and a movie, going through all the motions? Do you be straight up with her and tell her you’re only in it for the no-strings sex? Do you follow her to her hometown? Although there are several ways to go about it, only one will get you the best results.

I met this gorgeous blonde girl yesterday who’s only in town for a week while she visits family and goes to a wedding. She’s got long, blonde hair, a perfect smile, and is very outgoing and loves to laugh. I like that in a girl. It exudes confidence. It tells me she’s not afraid of who she is, and tries not to be too serious with life.

She was sitting with one of her cousins at a local coffee shop I like to frequent, and she caught my eye the moment I set foot inside the establishment. She was a shining angel, radiating rays of sunshine everywhere. She was wearing a fitted white top, and it accented all her right curves.

I got my coffee and strategically sat within her line of sight. I pulled out the paper and turned on my iPod and started doing my thing, not giving her a second glance. I caught her looking a couple of times, and the second time I held her gaze for a second, then flashed her a big-ass smile. She smiled back, embarrassed that she was caught staring.

Immediately, I stand up and make my way over there, all smiles. Her cousin doesn’t seem to approve of me just yet. Most people don’t. I just need a little time, and an in. I make a crack about how I saw bright rays of light emanating from within the windows of the coffee shop, and I had to see whether there was an angel trapped inside or just a flashlight rescue party in full swing.

Now normally, I don’t give girls compliments. Compliments are sleazy in their own right, and it sends the wrong message, especially when you first meet someone. Same with presents; they’re just ticking time bombs, and they’ll always end up blowing up in your face. Someday I’ll go into more detail about this, but for now, trust me: compliments and presents – while nice and thoughtful, even if they’re completely, totally sincere – always lead to problems because they send the wrong message.

I strike up a conversation (with both of them, lest I should falter and forget to include her own cousin in the colloquy), and pretty soon I have them both laughing about some of my mishaps at some weddings I’ve been to (I once danced with an older lady who later turned out to be the bride’s mother, and I had to hear shit from my crew for the following two weeks).

Her body language is saying it all. Her legs are uncrossed now, her stance is open (no crossed arms) and pointed directly at me, she’s rubbing her knee softly and playing with her hair, and she’s leaning forward, all ears. And she’s got both rows of her beautiful teeth smiling right at me. This girl is amazing. Everything is going well, that is, until she tells me she’s only in town till the weekend, at which time she’ll say goodbye to her family and go back to Georgia.

I start panicking, but then it slowly dawns on me, this could be a beautiful thing. And then I start asking myself, what do you do with a girl who’s only in town for a week? I run all the options through my head while I listen to her tell a story about her hellish flight here. I could ask her to go on a typical blue-collar dinner-and-a-movie and hope something develops. I could go to the wedding (crash the wedding?) with her and show her a good time. I could show her around town for a day. The possibilities are endless. But it the bomb’s a-tickin’. Five more days and she’s gone. There really is only one way to go about it. I take a deep breath, take a good, long look at her face, and decide right then and there: it’s worth it.

I will fall in love with this girl for 5 days.

We will be inseparable for the next few days, every moment spent in each other’s arms. There is no greater sorrow than losing someone special, which only makes the joy of being together even sweeter. With that deadline approaching, she will move faster along the relationship than in the timeframe she normally operates under. Come Goodbye Day, we will have gone on dates, fallen in love, talked about our future together, made sweet, sweet lovin’, and experienced the sorrow of breaking up.

I got her number yesterday, promising her (to her cousin’s slight dismay) I will show her the world (but mainly just Boise). And now it’s today, the clock is ticking, and time’s a-wastin’. Cross your fingers, people.

Angels need lovin’, too.

Today’s Daily Challenge: Approach a complete stranger with a foreign accent. No, it doesn’t have to be a certain one, only the one you’re most comfortable with. No Kentucky Inbred Drawls, either (nice try, you fucks). Try a Mexican accent, or a French accent, or even a Cockney accent (if you’ve watched enough Guy Ritchie movies). Do it at the grocery store, or the convenience store, or wherever you’re at tonight. See how people treat you differently. How they look at you funny, and how they get that air of superiority just because you happen to sound different. Tell them where you’re from. Look at their eyes and begin to see the stereotype matching forming in their brains.

Then assume regular accent and call them out on it. Make them feel like shit for succumbing to tired ethnic clichés. Tell them not to judge people based soley on the sound of their voice or the color of their skin, and make them feel like a pile of shit by the time you’re done. Congratulations! You’ve just broken an ethnic stereotype! One down, 600 million to go!

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 27, 2005 | Permalink |

There’s no post for today, but I would just like to introduce my faithful readers to a new daily feature I think will really take off. I’m calling it the Dick Shagwell Daily Challenge.

Each day, after each beautifully-composed and well-written piece of heavenly prose I post, I will append a daily challenge to my readers. I know most of you don’t really step out of your personal bubbles all that often, but I plan on changing that. Want to score better with the ladies? Here’s your chance to get there. Want to have a great conversation piece next time you’re at work with something crazy/stupid/just plain weird you did the day before? Shit, wanna just make a difference in somebody’s life? You can sign up right here.

Today’s Daily Challenge: Hold the door open for someone. Yea, it’s not that hard, I know, but trust me, this karma shit will definitely get back to you. If the person is unappreciative or fails to say a simple “thank you", go ahead and catch up with them and give them shit. A lot of shit. “Just a simple fucking thank you would have done me fine, but your pathetic lack of general social skills must have gotten in the way. Oh, and you’re fat,” for instance. If they’re a good-looking bitch, who knows what might happen. And if she sees you opening the door for her kids, that’s bonus baby-daddy points for you!

Email me back with any short stories that come of these. As always, my email address is dickshagwell@gmail.com. I know most of you won’t get into fistfights over this one, but who knows. Someone will always takes it to the max. They always do.

Take it to the max, bitches!

Update: I’ve received word from a few of you telling me how pussy this whole thing sounds. Let me clear this up: my vision for this thing is for my army of Dick Shagwell followers to go and actually do the daily challenges. Just like in Fight Club, you gotta prove yourself first, and then you can get assigned newer and more…creative challenges. I want readers to tell me they haven’t missed a daily challenge in 3 months. This doesn’t mean that all the challenges are going to be pussy. I’m thinking of stepping it up and doing a “kick a whore in the ass and run away", or “hit on a girl by giving her all smiles with a huge hunk of spinach on your front tooth". Lofty, but attainable as well. Just like any good challenge should be. Hope this clears up some of the misconception.

Have you completed today’s daily challenge yet? Get crackin’!

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 26, 2005 | Permalink |

Have you ever noticed how old people always seem to smell funny? Of course you have. Everyone has. They emit gusts of repuslive redolence at every step. It makes no difference geographically, either. You can have reekers in the plains of Kansas, the piers of San Francisco, and the suburbs of Chicago.

This is considered common knowledge. Well, duh; grandkids have been exposed to this malodorance since toddlerhood when visiting the grandparents. What I find interesting is that all senior citizens tend to smell the same. Especially the older women. Now, our older senior gentlemen are usually sending forth fumes consisting of encrusted urine, gingivitis, and underwashed undergarments. Again, common knowledge. Older ladies, on the other hand, tend to emit nasty effluvium in one of two flavors:

1) Wet Dog Funk. Yes, I said it. Don’t even deny it, because you know exactly what I’m talking about. It would be one thing to have an older lady giving her dachsund (for you psych majors: weiner dog) baths everyday and then considering the stray splashing water good enough to call a “shower". It’s another when the older lady doesn’t have a dog, or a neighbor with a dog, or even a neighborhood do-it-yourself doggy detailing shop. In short, no dog should mean no dog smell. Right?

Wrong. I went undercover to find out. I found a ladyfriend of mine sleeping naked, so I woke her up, fucked the shit out of her, and put her ass to sleep again. Then I went undercover again to get to the real dirt on this perplexing problem. Turns out there is no scientifically compelling reason for this. Besides passing gas every fourth step, old ladies just happen to naturally smell like a sopping wet german shephard dry-humped them first thing in the morning. And that’s the truth.

What’s there to do about it? Well, glad you asked! You should seriously consider purchasing a nice bottle of:

2) Old Lady Perfume. I don’t even have to describe it. You know exactly what I’m talking about. There seems to be only one type, because I have never smelled an old lady who wore any perfume other than this. It’s not very attractive, and chances are they sprayed entirely too much on ("too much” referring to any amount strong enough to kill smaller domestic puppies). Now, I want to believe in my heart of hearts that there are some older ladies out there who purchase fragrances other than Old Lady Perfume. I mean, come on. As kids, do you think they enjoyed smelling their grandparents with that ghastly stench? Nope. So why would they turn into seniors at their respective times and adopt the same fumes themselves? It doesn’t make any sense. No fucking sense at all.

But wait, there’s an explanation! After conducting a large-scale, statistically significant double-blind randomly-sampled survey (read: asking my grandma), I found out older ladies do wear other types of perfume. But upon immediate contact with their skin, a chemical reaction (that has yet to be researched) causes all fragrances – no matter how sweet and wonderful – to decompose into Old Lady Perfume. Try it yourselves, kids! Take some of your momma’s best perfume and spray the shit out of the nearest old lady (you can nab plenty at the neighborhood Golden Corral buffet) and see what kind of magical chemical concatenation of events take place. Once left to fester, give it a good whiff, and viola, you’ve got Old Lady Perfume! Makes a great science fair project! And grandma won’t mind, as long as you set a daytime television show on repeat nearby.

Something must be done about this travesty in modern American society. And who better to step up to the plate and take charge other than your man Dick Shagwell? I decided to do a little experiment on my own and see what an older lady would smell like without the the Old Lady Perfume. After unbeknownstly stealing my own grandmother’s unlabeled antique bottle of who-knows-what, I went back and visited her three days later (just enough time to make sure all her pores were free of contamination).

I couldn’t even step into the house. It smelled like semi-digested popcorn piss, curdled yogurt poop, and festering undercooked chicken sweat, rounded out by a pugnacious stench of a wet (and probably dead) golden retriever. And that was just my grandma, not her kitchen. It all makes sense! The only aroma strong enough to conceal/cancel out/overpower their natural putridity is that fucking Old Lady Perfume! It all makes sense now!

My nose started bleeding, and I threw the bottle in like a hand grenade and made a run for it.

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 25, 2005 | Permalink |

Let me share a few words with my readers about this whole mess of a situation that I like to call the “Hot Coffee” modification for Rockstar’s Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. Like any 15-34-year-old male chronic masturbater, I enjoy playing videogames in between taking “long” showers and eating. And I’ll be the first to admit that GTA:SA is one of the greatest games of all time. What with the incessant button-mashing games, the superstar cast, and the gratuitous litany of excessive violence, what’s not to love?

Apparently, a little lovin’ for my man Carl. And not just any type of lovin’. We’re talking press-the-buttons-along-to-the-beat-to-make-the-excitement-meter-go-up lovin’. Just like real life! I have an excitement meter, too. It’s called my “O Face". If the bitches press my buttons right, they get to see the happy ending and the credits (all over their face). So why does Hilary Clinton and her crack team of fingerbanging fish-eating lesbians have such a big deal with my man Carl?

Why is it that it’s OK for a teenager to assume the role of a gangster and pick up a gun and blaze away at any mothafucka (cops encouraged) with no consequence, although God forbid he engage in a beautiful, natural act of good ‘ole human persistance?

If I made a videogame, it would be called “Get Fucked: The Videogame“, where you assume the role of a playa not too dissimilar from Carl and your sole purpose in the game engine would be to try and spread your seed in as many bitches as possible. Sure, marriage is an option, as are girlfriends, booty calls, and that hot cousin of yours nobody knows about, but I’m trying to best approximate what it’s like in real life. You can go to the club and dance (alternate L1 and R1 to the beat!), the yoga class full of hot bitches (alternate L1 and R1 to get a good look at that girl in front of you bending over!), the gym (alternate L1 and R1 to keep from eating shit on the treadmill!), the coffee shop (button mash to keep from yelling at the barista for fucking up your coffee yet again!), and the good ‘ole whorehouse (hope you have plenty of credits saved up!).

You can pimp yourself out with customizable outfits, with everything from three-piece suits to pimp suits to bathing suits to clown suits. You can accessorize with hats, tattoos, ice (that’s “bling bling” for you white Middle-America males who watch MTV), shoes, handcuffs, and whips. Your bachelor pad (read: apartment you share with 2 other roommates who you hope won’t be home) can also be configured the way you want it: stereo systems, vibrating beds, dirty laundry everywhere, and plenty of used condoms that “technically should work one more time". In short: whatever you think will attract the ladies of this game.

And the ladies will be ultra-hot. I will personally make sure they are as close to real life as possible. This will equate to 30 pounds overweight, ugly, and pissy all the time. What’s not to like?

To succeed in the game, you are given a goal of women you must procreate with. Points are allocated based on your approach, your manner of dress, and your pickup. Multipliers are added based on how wild you get in bed ("but I don’t want to try anything other than missionary!"). Bonus time points are added by how quickly they jump on the cock, and how many phone calls it takes to get there. Extra points are given if they have boyfriends/fiancees/husbands/horny poolboys.

In conclusion, GF:TV will kick every videogame in existence’s ass so hard they’ll be tasting pixels. I’m assuming since the ESRB decided to give GTA:SA an Adults-Only rating of 18+ for showing some pixelated boobies, my game will share the same fate. Although I might be able to knock it down to a MA title or even a T rating if I include enough educational material.

I’m thinking of having guest appearances by none other than your man Dick interjecting at certain points in the game (when you get slapped, when she wants to handcuff you, when her sister wants you, when you buy and wear a terrible outfit, etc) and give you true-to-life pointers on what you should do in those situations. I feel it would benefit kids (and adults alike!) to have edutainment like this that can most definitely apply to their real-world situations, and help shape the Future of America into not such completely clueless assholes.

Now all I gotta do is start polishing my kneepads for my visit out to the ESRB.

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 24, 2005 | Permalink |

The thing about going out on weekends is that all the girls are wearing their finest. The entire workweek wears down on their souls, and their only escape is to dress like sluts come weekend time and go out in packs and look for some dick.

Am I complaining? Hell no. You should see the girls coming out downtown nowadays. Back ten years ago, we had some ugly-assed cowgirl bitches all about the place. Now, we’re getting a healthy dosage of Jack Mormon’s sisters; blonde, rich, and itchin’ to fuck. And they have attitude on ‘em, now.

Yea, I know. Hot girls with attitudes. Trust me, I’ve been there. But wouldn’t you rather have a hot girl being a total bitch to you than an ugly-assed mule giving you shit? The latter is doing it because she has no friends and thinks she feels better by trashing on those more successful, popular, and good-looking than her; the former makes you want her more because she’s “kinda saucy, and I like that.”

We’ve got lots of types of girls out here. I hate to classify and overgeneralize, but there are 3 types of girls that really do it for me.

1) The Esthetician/Cosmetologist/Hair Salon Lady. Not only can they keep a conversation going no problem (I think it’s just an inherent genetic trait to want to talk incessantly), but they know how to take care of themselves. They have the latest and greatest hairstyles, tend to wear fashionable jeans and shoes (a mighty big plus), and correctly know how to apply make-up without looking like a hoochie. Common give-aways include beads, big black/white belts, a “punk-y but still fashionable” look to them, and more self-conceit than me.

I tend to like the Hair Salon Lady because underneath all the clothes and the hair and the makeup is a fragile shell of a woman with no self-esteem and a whole lot of insecurities. For you psych majors out there: Easy fuck.

2) The Suicide Girls/Punk Mistresses. Please enjoy this video and return as promptly as possible without getting semen between the cracks of your keyboard (Oh, and there’s some nudity. Big deal).

These girls tend to never work out, yet are magically skinny and the envy of all the other girls when they show up in their teenie little bikinis lookin’ whiter than Tom Brokaw (read: pretty fuckin’ white). They dress their asses off, and convey the general feeling of “fuck you” to everybody. These girls fascinate me the most, because they tend not to like brothas like me (ie: I have not fucked a single one, although my imminent trip to Seattle might change all that when I show up in girl’s jeans, cowboy boots, a track jacket, and a blazer in the 90-degree heat. I hear they like that look, although I’m sure at least 14 of them die each year from heat exhaustion/pathetic loserness).

3) The Mormon Girls. Otherwise known as “mudsharks". The ethnic diversity of Boise still ranks among the most black- and latino-unfriendly in the country. These sheltered girls have grown up their whole lives without seeing a black man, and when they do, they don’t know what to do. Well, one of two things, actually: 1) I fuck them and they are so guilty they become a missionary and leave the country, or 2) I fuck them and they can’t get enough, beginning to wear hoops, pumps, and low-cut tops. And they start working on making their asses bigger. The latter tends to happen a little bit more often.

The Mormon Girls are even easier to lay than the Hair Salon Ladies (for me, anyway). So what’s left? I have to fuck a Suicide Girl. It’s as easy as that. So if you’re a Suicide Girl living in the area and want to experience all there is to experience in life (read: a big dick), go ahead and gimme a jingle on the dog-and-bone.

Next month, when I’m in Seattle, I’ll be sure to give it my best effort.

In the meantime, I need to figure out what size girl’s jeans I wear and where to find cowboy boots.

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 23, 2005 | Permalink |

Married women are always the most tricky. Half the time, they already have kids, and although some husbands are truly clueless, most get a clue. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a bored housewife who’s sick of being stuck in the same, dull monotony that is her life. She needs something to spice up her marriage to a robot.

I remember this one time back in the day when I met this woman at the grocery store. I was about 23 at the time, and I had a mojo that horny bitches could sense 4 counties over. Maybe 5. I see this woman who is amazingly well-preserved; a flat stomach, fit, and hot as hell. She must have been 7 years older than me, although she looked like a 21-year-old. She was dressed to kill, too.

I decided to walk right past her; her gaze held for a few seconds before she realized she was staring and looked down as she fumbled with her hair. Perfect. I left her alone and went to another section of the store, noticing her cart was devoid of milk. Sure enough, a few minutes later I’m at the milk section and she turns the corner. I don’t even give her the time of day. I seemingly can’t decide which type of milk to buy, and she approaches ever-so-slowly. She’s sizing me up, getting horny, fantasizing. At least I think she is.

“Funny, you could probably drink whole milk and not gain a pound, yet I have a feeling all you drink is skim. Am I right?”

She looks at me in bafflement, then stammers, “Actually…yes.” She smiles. “How did you know? Are you insinuating I’m portly?”

“Good Lord, are you serious?” I flash her my pearly whites, making sure to show both row of teeth. “A woman like you in such perfect shape could probably drink lard like water and still have no problem turning a man like me on.”

She twirls her hair as she starts to turn red. Her awkward little laugh drives butterflies crazy in my stomach. I want her completely. I want her absolutely. I want her right now.

The rock on her finger weighs at least 4 pounds. I pretend not to notice. “So what do you think I should get? I can’t decide myself.”

She looks at me up and down, biting her lip in the process. “Oh, I’d say you’re a 1% guy; you like nutritional value of 2%, although you hate the watered-down taste of skim.” She folds her arms triumphantly. “You definitely look like a 1% guy.” She’s laughing.

“You must be psychic. If I could read minds like you could,” I say while I gently touch her arm, “I would know exactly what you were thinking right now.”

Her mouth opens slightly, and we’re looking directly at each other. People pass by. The stare holds forever. She curls her lip into a naughty grin. “What would you guess, Mr. Know-It-All?”

I move a little closer. “I think you’re bored. I think your mind wanders sometimes, wondering what it would be like to have something you’re not supposed to. I think these thoughts pervade your mind all day long.” I lean in close enough to lick her ear and whisper, “I think you’re craving something you can’t have.” My hand brushes “accidentally” past her ass. I can sense the chills. She’s mine.

She’s groping for words, but they won’t come. She stammers, fumbles with her hair, and can’t look me in the eye. I put my hand on her hip and say, “Listen, I know you’re married. I know you love your husband, but look at me. You deserve something only I can offer you.”

Next thing you know, I’m following her to her house. I grab her groceries and head inside. I can do nothing other than stare at her gorgeous body. Her little dress is so fucking hot. Not a moment after I set the things in the fridge and close the door, she jumps me and pins me against the fridge.

“He’ll be home in three hours. We have plenty of time.” With that, she takes my hand and guides it over her perfect breasts. She smiles at me, and I can’t take it anymore. I kiss her deeply, passionately, zealously.

I throw her on her counter, and lift her dress off. Her body really is a phenomenon. I slowly kiss her thighs, slowly licking and working my way farther in. I’m teasing her now. I get close, then pull away, licking the back of her knees and thighs. She’s squirming, she wants it so bad. And she’s not gonna get it unless she begs for it.

I slowly take her panties off with my teeth. Right on cue, she takes a hold of my head and forces me on her pussy. It’s perfectly shaven, and tastes like petunias. She’s digging her fingernails into my head, and I love it. This is gonna be good.

“Just fuck me. I can’t take it anymore.”

“Are you sure about that? You don’t seem like you really want it right now.”

“Are you kidding?” She props herself on her elbows and stares right at me. “I haven’t felt this way in years.” She takes my hand and I follow her into her bedroom. Seconds later my pants have been undone and she’s putting on my rubber for me. She sees my size, and looks at me lustily. I can tell she wants to see what it’s like.

What happened in that bedroom was pure magic. This woman was everything I could have ever wanted from a woman. We made love for what seemed like an eternity. We fucked 15 different ways till Thursday. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever witnessed, right up until the moment her husband pulled into the garage.

“Oh, FUCK. You have to get out of here. It’s not safe if you don’t hurry up! He carries a concealed weapon, and he’ll use it.”

Shit, that’s all you had to say! I hear the door from the garage leading into the kitchen open as he steps into the house. I don’t even have time to put my shirt on. “Where the fuck do I get out?!”

“Umm, shit, I don’t know. But you have to get out NOW, otherwise he won’t hesitate to shoot and kill you.” I’m not gonna stick around and see if she’s right. I open the window, and take a running jump right through the bug screen, crashing hard into the backyard. I grab my shoes, my pants, my clothes, and my wallet, and I take off buck-ass nekkid down the side of the house and into my car, which I (thankfully) parked a few houses down. I wave to a couple kids on their bikes as my bird flaps into the wind, and I try and fumble for the keys in my pants pocket.

Shit. They’re gone. My heart sinks. Wait, here they are. Phew.

I take off with tires squealing wearing nothing but socks and a condom. I look in my rearview mirror, and I can see the huge brick of a man run out into the street with handcannon raised in the air. Luckily, he wasn’t dumb enough start shooting in a residential neighborhood at a car that was too far away anyway. I escaped with my life, but just barely.

Was it worth the risk? Let me ask you this. If you could only make love one more time before you died, would it not be the greatest in the whole history of the world? In short, yes, it was worth almost taking my life.

That’s what I felt. I loved this woman for those few hours we were together, and then we never saw each other again. And although it breaks my heart, I also know it was the greatest time I’ve ever had with any woman.

Well, up until the next bitch came along, that is.

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 22, 2005 | Permalink |

This was one of those times. There was just a mess everywhere. There was semen on the carriage seat, on the floorboards, and some on the side pillars. I didn’t even know I had it in me. Well, I did, because your man Dick Shagwell’s left nut alone weighs like 45 pounds.

She’s cleaning up. Well, cleaning up the best she can, anyway. I help her get some of the protein off her hair with the canvas of the carriage top when I suddenly hear footsteps. Two pairs. And they’re coming in our direction. She shoots me a glance full of horror, and I duck the fuck down. I’ll rather get goat-fucked than get caught now.

The footsteps get even closer. They’re almost on us by this point, and whoever they are haven’t said a word. I just hope to God a stray drop of ejaculate doesn’t drop from the ceiling onto their heads and give us away like it always happens in the movies (well, the “films” I watch, anyway). I run a quick mind-check of all our belongings, and hope that our shoes aren’t on the ground out there.

“Excuse me, folks. It’s OK to come out now.”

My turn to shoot a glance of horror back at her.

“Sir, please step out of the carriage. Is the lady decent, because she needs to step out too.”

Go ahead and cue goat sex, please.

How did they know? We step out sheepishly, her hair is a mess, and our clothes are thrown on half-assedly. I help her step down, and we turn and face our Sheriffs of Shame. Two security guards in khakis and sport coats are standing there, and it looks like they’re trying to be serious, even though the curling of the lips on the side of their mouths are giving them away.

“Please, come with us. We’d hate to have to cause a scene, so please follow us into the park offices so we may take the appropriate action and sort this all out.”

Great. Our walk of shame was not that bad, actually. Besides a small cum stain on her shirt and her hair, we looked like your typical amusement park couple in love. The security guards are walking ahead of us, and they’re whispering together. They’re both stifling laughter, and they sneak a peak back at us once in a while.

We walk across the park and arrive at the central park offices. The building looks vaguely like a concrete compound where secret experiments are performed on alien beings. We’re escorted inside to the superintendent’s voluptuous corner office. Inside, sitting at his desk, is the superintendent of the park: a largish early-fifties thumb of a man, clearly of military background.

“Have a seat, folks.” We sit down on the two plush leather chairs in front of the lustrous oak desk. “That’ll be all, Frank and Hugh. If you could bring me the tape on the way back, I’d appreciate it.” The tape? “Well, well, well. How are you star-crossed lovers doing today? My name is [name withheld, but we’ll call him “Hardy McPrick"], and I’m the superintendent and chief general manager of Lagoon Park.

“Let me tell you folks a little bit about this park.” He clears his throat extravagantly. “With a history that dates back to 1886, Lagoon Park has proven to be a highly popular recreational spot for residents of the Salt Lake area in Utah. We accomodate over 1 million visitors each season, and we employ 3,000 people, 200 of which are year-round such as myself. In recent times, and with a changing moral climate, we’ve had to compensate – and prepare for – “special occasions” that inevitably come into play. Such as your little sex romp on one of the carriages in Pioneer Village a few minutes ago. Our company cannot afford any litigation or law enforcement snags, so we inevitably like to settle any…"mishaps” behind closed doors.

“As you might now be aware, Lagoon Park maintains diligent security over the park 24 hours a day. We have over three hundred high-resolution video surveillance cameras, most of which include audio monitoring equipment, and our state-of-the-art central control room is configured for viewing and controlling multiple cameras effortlessly.” He turns in his chair, and starts a smirk. “Simultaneously, we have security personnel stationed throughout the park – both uniformed and undercover – so nothing, and I do mean nothing, goes unnoticed.”

He looks back at us, his hands folded neatly in front of him. “This is not the first time we’ve had couples fornicating on company property. In fact, it might come as no surprise to you that the same carriage you folks…"procreated” in now has a track record of 17 separate lewd sexual encounters. Apparently that carriage holds a special allure to many park-goers itching for a little extra excitement apparently not found in any of our rides. Do you know how expensive it gets to reupholster a vintage horse-drawn carriage with authentic-looking interiors each time? We stopped doing it four years ago.” I look over to my girl, and she returns the glance with the realization that her hair might not just contain my own semen.

A rap on the door. The two same security guards step back in the room, and the shorter, bulkier of the two opens a cabinet and places a tape into the integrated television set. They smile and nod, and the next thing you know, they’re back out the door. With nary a word to say.

“We had to install an extra surveillance camera next to the carriages to make sure we are keeping people accountable. To be honest, it is one of the more prominently displayed cameras in the park, and I cannot believe that every single time this has happened, people just like yourselves fail to look directly over and notice the large camera pointed in your faces.” My head drops slightly. I’m looking pretty sheepish right about now, and I’m looking directly down. I’m a fucking dumbass.

“We would rather not get law inforcement involved if we don’t have to, which is why I’m going to be real with you, if you don’t mind.” I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. He pulls out a remote control from his drawer and begins playback of the tape. His stance relaxes. “Listen, folks, I know what it’s like for you two. Itchin’ to fuck like rabbits every four seconds. Especially when you have a young woman as beautiful and as…"adept” as your lady friend here. I don’t mind gettin’ my dick wet on those rare occasions when I can actually get it to stay up, too, but you have to at least be smart about it.” The video is zooming in on my naked ass wailing away into my girl from behind, pulling a clutchful of her hair. Her cheek is squishing against the seat, and her face is contorted into a mixture of pure lust and open-mouthed grimaces. I can hear the moaning loud and clear on the TV, and I slap my forehead with embarassment.

“My God, I’ve never seen two people fuck like you. I have to say, it was incredible. Our security system has caught everything from teenagers giving half-assed handjobs to full-on animal fucking like you two. I kid you not when I say you had a crowd of about 25 or 30 employees and security personnel spectating the show – live.” I look over to my girl, and her jaw is dropped to the floor in bewilderment. “In fact, there was quite the cheering when you both climaxed.”

Jesus. H. Christ.

If a black man ever blushed, it would have been right then. My girl’s dumbfounded face was bright red, and I could tell she wanted to wither up right there and die.

“We’re not getting the authorities involved. We’re not going to litigate or press charges. We’re going to let you off easy, actually. As far as we’re concerned, this never happened. Do you understand me?”

I look to the sex tape, then back to him, and I manage a barely audible “yes, [Mr. McPrick].”

“But as with any deal, you can’t get something for nothing. In return for our generosity, we will keep the tape for…further investigation.” She flares her nostrils and almost pipes up, but I put my finger on her lips and give her a “just let it be” look. At this point, I’m not going to oppose the man. I’ve already got enough trouble on my hands, and I don’t want to have this escalate out of control.

He buzzes the secretary, and pretty soon we’re being escorted out of the park with complimentary ice cream cones. Just like that, we left the park, minus any handcuffs or lawsuits.

Needless to say, it was a long, quiet ride back to the hotel. We had a falling-out after the ordeal, and I don’t think to this day that girl I was with then will ever live with the fact that there’s a sex tape of her circulating around the offices of Lagoon (and who-knows-where else).

Me? I personally don’t mind. I’ve starred in quite a few “feature films” when I was a young buck in college. This is just another notch in my already heterogeneous, motley filmography, as far as I’m concerned. As for the park? I have not –and will not – ever go back to Lagoon Park again.

Although I would love to see their video archives.

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 21, 2005 | Permalink |

I told her I didn’t want to. Well, that would be a lie, because of course Dick ain’t gonna refuse getting laid. But in the middle of an amusement park and at the risk of getting caught and facing possible criminal charges? My two heads were at a dire conflict. Could you stop stroking my pants, please? I’m trying to think.

Down a little bit north of Salt Lake City, there’s a smaller amusement park called Lagoon, which is Utah’s family-friendly (read: Mormon-owned) answer to the big franchise theme parks like Six Flags. The park itself is very well-kempt, although it suffers from a lack of jaw-dropping rides as well as a lack of well-functioning ones, too. But this is besides the point. There’s a little portion of the park called Pioneer Village stuck in the far corner of the park, and it’s sole purpose was to try to inform the general public (read: rich white Mormon families) about the days of colonization and settling the West in yesteryear. It’s chock full of small wooden cottages recreating some of the familiar scenes you would have beheld had you lived in the 19th century (that’s the 1800s for you illiterate folk/dumbasses out there). Among some of the diplays in this Pioneer Village was an old dentist’s office, an old barber shop, a gun display, and a carriage display.

And it was during our tour through the carriage display that this girl I was with thought of the crazy idea to bone in one of the carriages. Granted, the carriages were semi-protected from the outside, although all it would take for a blonde-haired, blue-eyed family of six was a closer look inside.

“Fuck no! Can’t you just wait till we get back to the hotel room? It’s got a jacuzzi that you can just pretend is a carriage. Deal?”

“Baby. We are fucking right there, right now. I want you so bad, baby. I’m…not wearing any panties.”

“I, uh…can see that.” Damn. “Umm, I guess it’ll be okay. Although, the last thing I want is the Headless Horseman popping out of the trunk while I’m balls deep.”

“Baby, it’ll be ok. It’ll be fun. Just lie down right inside that one and I’ll do the rest.”

I look around one more time to make sure the coast is clear, swallow the lump in my throat, and send a silent prayer upwards as I climb into the ancient, rickety thing. I’ll consider it a miracle if this thing doesn’t crumble apart by the time we’re done.

Approximately 3.9 seconds later, my pants are at my ankles and my knob’s getting polished. She’s giving me a whole new meaning to the term “road head". I’ve still got my head up, looking for any sign of trouble. I just know a police task force is gonna pop out behind the other carriages and arrest (and probably beat) my ass. Last thing I need is a felony rape charge or something ridiculous like that.

“Baby, stop worrying. You’re still limp and nervous. Nobody knows we’re in here.” She gives me an evil smirk as she slides her shorts down slowly. “Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride, baby.”

Fuck me. What’s a man supposed to do?

Approximately 0.196 nanoseconds later, I’ve got her bent over the seat as I slowly start to push it in. She lets out a small whimper as she realizes my…"full potential". I pull it back out almost all the way, give it a little dramatic pause, and then slam it back in and wail away. Hard. She lets out a yelp, but covers her mouth. I’m afraid half of Utah probably heard us. But there’s no turning back now.

She’s grabbing her ass cheek, looking back at me. “Oh, God. I like it hard. Don’t you fucking stop.” I’m slamming it in and out even harder now, and I can hear the fwap fwap fwap of my balls slapping up against her. Her face is up against the seat, and her cheek is smushed as she’s panting with desire. I grab a handful of hair with one hand and a handful of tit with the other. I pull on her hair and squeeze her nipple at the same time, and she starts moaning with lust. “Fuck me, baby. Fuck me harder!”

Ok then!

I shift leverage mid-pump with nary a pause (yes, I am a master) and really start throwing my back into it, hard. I’ve got a handful of hair, and my other hand is in the air, waving my imaginary cowboy hat around, yelling “yeeeehaw!”

Now I know what it must have been like for the settlers back in the day. Although minus the hat and a line of 4 other polygamous wives in eager anticipation to get sexed up.

Lucky Mormon fucks.

I shift my weight a little higher to maximize stimulation in her spot (you ladies know which one), and I reach around and start stimulating her love button at the same time. She’s surprised by the move. She likes it. “Oh. Good…God. Just like…that.” She screams. Loudly.

Wave after wave of relentless orgasm washes over her entire body, and I can feel her stomach and pussy contracting. Her body is full of that crazy tingling sensation, I can feel it. It instantly sends me right over the edge, and I explode over and over again inside her whilst in the middle of her throes of passion. The world stops, and suddenly it’s just me and her in a peaceful white void, together as one.

She’s still panting, looking back at me and laughing.

I’m laughing, too.

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 20, 2005 | Permalink |

Sliced bread. Television. Penis enlargement pills. All life-changing inventions in their own rights. They have changed the way we live our day-to-day lives; our lives without them would seem rather incomplete and pointless. After all, who wouldwant to live without penis enlargement pills? I know I wouldn’t. Not at all.

There is one invention, however, that has completely changed my life. Well, most probably right up until the next week, maybe two. But definitely a life-changer. What is this invention that’ll make you want to sell your first-born son into slavery for?

White pants. On girls. Yes, I said it. Go ahead and mull that one over for a little bit. Mhmm. See? There really is nothing hotter than a beautiful girl wearing some nice, white pants. Hell, even if they’ve got a big nose and one of those unibrow things, white pants will still make them look fucking hot. They can turn any ho-hum girl into a miracle in anatomical excellence.

Plus, you can sometimes see their underwear through. Oh yes.

Yes, indeed. Skirmishes, battles, and even wars have been fought over hot bitches in nice, tight white pants. Almost every major celebrity sex scandal has (probably) involved a girl wearing these mythical white pants. “R. Kelly, it’s ok on my hair, but please don’t pee on my pants, too!” “Mr. Clinton, go ahead and relieve yourself on this nasty-ass dress of mine. I gotta wear these pants when I go ‘visit’ House Majority Leader Tom DeLay (R-TX), too.” “I know your woman is hot and all, Kobe, but can she do this?” (That last one actually involved a very difficult acrobatic bending-over maneuver, but you can bet yo ass her pants were laying on the dog kennel right next to her).

So you can clearly see, folks, that this world could not function without the recent advent of beautifully dyed fabrics in a variety of cuts and fits. It’s all subconscious, too. Because we all know deep down inside white signifies purity and good vaginal hygiene. It’s no wonder man has a deep longing in his soul/heart/loins when he sees those white pants following every careful curve of that woman’s lower body.

Next time you’re out and about, go ahead and keep a lookout for these elusive white pants. They can be white chinos, white jeans, or (most boner-inducingly of all:) white yoga pants. Hot damn!

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 18, 2005 | Permalink |

So there I was, balls deep in this fat ho, when I looked up and realized, “Hey, Wedding Crashers is the funniest fucking movie I’ve seen in a long time.” She looks over her shoulder and back up at me with a contorted face of confusion and ecstasy, but I just put my finger on her lips and told her to focus as I gave her a supportive slap on the ass. I don’t think it’s humanly possible to get any funnier than that cat Vince Vaughn. That dude has such perfect comedic timing and great delivery, I think his performance in the movie rivals the greats like Dan Akroyd, Bill Murray, and John Belushi in their respective primes. He hits each line perfectly, and never keeps his eye off the punch line. In fact, I heard many of his lines were improvised, which makes it all that much more impressive.

“Don’t stop, Dick! Don’t stop!” Umm, pretty sure I can stop any time I want, you dirty ho. You’re fat and ugly, and the only reason I’m doing this is because I’m wingman for my man LB is in the other room with your hot friend. OK, sure, there’s plenty of fun, raunchy nudity in the movie, some coarse moments (the family dinner comes to mind), and a healthy dose of fucking profanity, but this movie definitely has a heart to it too. This movie could have easily passed for PG-13 had the studio been careful, but they said “fuck it” and went all out to make an unashamedly beautiful movie. You know, if I were to venture as far, I’d almost label Wedding Crashers a chick flick made for guys. It really has a heart deep down inside all that display of hot bitches and crude humor ("Go get some strange ass").

“Dick, what’s wrong? You’ve gone limp! Am I doing something wrong?” Umm, no, honey. You’re just built like a husky ox and moan like one, too. I don’t consider myself a bull-fucker, but thanks anyways. “Honey, of course it’s not you. I’m just…under a lot of stress right now.” Vaughn definitely steals the show, although Owen Wilson plays the “straight man” perfectly (I’m not even gonna comment on that at this time, cause I think we all know about…you know), and the two form a comedic pairing like no other. They set each other up perfectly, and their chemistry is unparalleled. And by chemistry, I mean they probably had some awkward handjobs in the trailer ("Hi there! So, uh… nice pants?"). They really do play well off each other … (you know what, never mind. Forget the joke, I can’t talk about my man Vaughn like that). The rest of the cast also does a great job, including Rachel McAdams, who stole my heart back when the Notebook came out. I could bone the living shit out of her for the rest of my life. The rest of the family is great, including Christopher Walken. And there’s a surprise cameo at the end that’s just perfect. Perfect.

I hear the door close in the next room. Perfect! They’re done. I push the fat ho off the bed and grab some shorts. She gives me the “what the fuck, I’m in love with you” look, but it’s immediately covered by the pile of her clothes I throw at her face. I put some shorts on, and I tell her, “I would have personally cut some of the unnecessary fluff out of the third act, as it kinda bogged down with some 15 minutes filler that could have been left out. It just feels like some scenes are rather repetitive.” The bitch looks at me like oh no you di-in’t, but I push her fat ass out the door before I have to hear any of it. I lean out the door and tell her, “Nevertheless, Wedding Crashers is a really well-made comedy. It has a great set-up, the characters are varied and well-developed and it never lets up. Vaughn and Wilson are an excellent comedic pairing and the supporting cast has some pretty strong laughs of their own.” She yells her “fuck you", and then takes off.

Just go and see this movie. Take a girl with ya. Take your buddies with ya. Either way, everybody’s going to have a great time. It’s about time the R-rated comedy came back.

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 16, 2005 | Permalink |

One of my good friends recently quit her job because of some drama going on in her workplace (read: crazy coworker bitches), and she was telling me all about the other jobs she had. It got me thinking about all the jobs I’ve had over the years, and all the crazy things I’ve done to get my ass fired.

I worked at Dairy Queen at the ripe young age of 16, back when it was actually popular. I kicked so much ass, they installed me as permanent drive-thru cashier, which basically meant I had the easiest job in the world. All the little bitches would come in with their mommas through the drive-thru, and I’d holla at bitches left and right, not giving a fuck what their mothers or fathers thought. I think I actually got some girl’s number right there at the window, with a direct cockblock attempt by her own mother.

I had a great time working there, and I started having way too much freedom. I started eating everything we had, since the supervisors liked me so much. In fact, I habitually frequented the back freezer where all the ice cream popsicles and cookie dough were kept. And I gorged myself at least two times a day. I’d grab a fistful of cookie dough pieces, stuff ‘em in my mouth, and walk nonchalantly back to the front. My mouth would be bloated out with it, and everybody just shook their head in disbelief and disappointment. Fuck you guys! A man’s gotta eat!

One day I was being a lazy mutherfucker like usual, when this hot little momma that worked with me pulled me into the back bathroom. I was joking about how she was gonna take advantage of me. Heh. Well, she pulls my shirt off, then strips down completely naked and bends over right in front of me. I pause for a moment, getting over the initial shock of seeing this ripe young girl ready to fuck right in front of me. If we got caught, it would mean certain termination. She pulls me into her and, well, the rest is history.

My next gig was bussing and and then eventually waiting tables at a popular fish house. The first day I walked in, I smelled that fucking fish smell and almost turned and walked out right there. If it weren’t for the two cute little hostesses giving me the two-rows-of-teeth smiles, I wouldn’t have stayed. Eventually, I got used to the smell, and the sous chef slowly indoctrinated me on the delicacies of fish and shellfish. Now, I can’t get enough of fish, mostly in part because it’s so healthy for you, but also because it just tastes so damn good (when done right).

If there’s ever been a job whose sole underlying purpose was to get you laid, it’d be waiting tables. Well, cocktailing at bars actually wins, but that’s only if you like takin’ it up da butt. I digress. As a waiter, you get to see all the ladies come out, and you get your chance to make an impression (not hard to do), which in turn leads to the digits, and then to who knows what. Funny part is, there’s more fuckin’ in the back of the restaurant than in the front.

This is just a known fact. Waiters pretty much like to fuck. All the time. Hell, you try sticking a whole bunch of good-looking 19-24-year-olds in a place with a freezer, dry storage, a walk-in refridgerator, and a break room table, and you try keepin’ ‘em from fucking everywhere. The managers always thought it was the water at the restaurant that was getting all the bitches pregnant. Fuck no! It was my ass!

I kid, I kid. Besides getting it on in pretty much every nook and cranny except for the hostess stand right up front, I holla’d at bitches at my tables (and usually everyone else’s). I was also a damn fine young waiter, as well. In fact, I started taking advantage of the job, and one day I forgot I worked a double. I’m obsessive when it comes to writing my schedule down and being on time, but this one time it just completely passed me by. I went cliff diving with a couple of co-workers, and when I finally got home and received the phone call that I hadn’t shown up to work twice in one day, I hurried down there, only to find out my two-year tour at the fish house was done. I got fired. Expelled. Shit-canned.

I tried working at Sizzler, but that didn’t last long. That place is so fucking white trash I just got up and left and went camping for a whole weekend without calling. Please do me a favor and never frequent Sizzler. Like, ever. It sucks fucking ass, and caters only to the white-trash rednecks with money barely enough to cover the salad bar and a measly dollar tip. Don’t be like that.

The mother of all fuck-ups happened when I picked up a job working at a popular high-volume italian restaurant. I also did a year and a half there, and enjoyed the waitstaff (read: nice tits all around). I really enjoyed the job, and I had a great time. One day I went partying at Lucky Peak lake, and by the time I had gotten back to my phone I was already something like a half-hour late for my shift that night, and I had no inclination to go back to work (read: drunk, hot bitches in bikinis). I called them and told them I was in the emergency room at St Luke’s hospital, waiting to hear from the doctors. Because my dad had suffered a massive stroke and was in critical condition. Or something ridiculous like that. I was even fake-crying into the fucking phone.

I thought I had a pretty good performance, actually. Well, right up until the moment the dog started barking.

“Robert, is that… is that a dog?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck you, you dog! You’re killin’ me! “No, ma’am. I’m in the emergency room.”

“Oh. I coulda…I could have sworn I just heard a dog over the phone.”

“Umm, listen, I gotta go. I’ll call you back when I get news, but I definitely won’t be able to come in tonight.”

And because I suck ass at lying, the management did a team effort to try and uncover what was really going on. They called the hospital, and then my emergency contact, which just so happened to be my own father.

Not good.

The next morning, I was pulled into the the office and the door closed. And everybody knows when the office door closes and you’re inside, nothing good ever happens.

The managers told me how disappointed they were in me, blah blah blah. “…lost trust and we can’t have that. We’re going to have to let you go.” I just got up and left.

I said my requisite fuck-you’s to all the fuckers I didn’t like, and I squeezed the hot hostess’s ass on the way out.

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 14, 2005 | Permalink |

I floated down the Boise River yesterday, and I gotta tell you, it’s a damn good time. If you’ve never been to Boise before, the Boise River meanders right through the middle of the city. It’s not the biggest river; on the contrary, it’s a lazy, traipsing river that cuts right by Boise State’s blue-turf stadium, the heart of downtown, and into Boise’s beautiful park system. I’m pretty sure people have been doing this for a long time, because I know my own pappy did it when he was a kid. There’s three man-made waterfalls to spice things up, a couple of bridges to jump off, and a couple of rope swings to jump in and get all the bitches wet. In fact, the Boise Parks System installed Barber Park at the top of the river whose sole purpose was to cater to the river-going crowd, complete with free air pumps, unloading and parking of vehicles, and a couple of drink dispensers.

So about eight of us go float the river, and we have a couple of small rafts and three kayaks. We tie ‘em together, cast off, and as soon as we made the first turn, we cracked open the alcohol.

Because no river-floating trip is complete without the requisite Fade-arade and Sparks. And because the river is part of Boise’s public park system, no alcohol is tolerated in the river or in any surrounding parks. But fuck that, we’re having fun.

We’re evenly matched – there’s four girls and four guys, and we start having a good time. In fact, we start having a really fucking merry time.

The hot Russian is back. And this time, she’s in a string bikini. Her boyfriend (who outweighs my ass by about thirty pounds) is in one of the kayaks, keeping a close eye. Because she’s getting drunk. And she’s super fucking hot. And there’s four dudes eyeing her.

Somehow, she’s charged with the responsibility of manning a paddle, and I start fearing for my life. The river twists and turns, and gets going pretty fast in some areas. And if you don’t know how to navigate, your raft/tube gets fucked up in the sharp bushes along the edge. I’ve seen many drunk asses forget to paddle towards the middle and come shit outta luck when their tube pops in the middle of the river. Cause that means yo ass is walkin’.

So the drunk Russkie is sucking at the paddling, and I keep grabbing the paddle from her at critical moments, because I’d rather get fucked in the ass than have to hump two wet, deflated rafts down the side of the river with four girls yelling at my ass. Russkie’s gettin’ pissed, because she believes in her heart of hearts that she can navigate like Lincoln, while everybody else is trying to convince her to just give the paddle to me. I finally grab it, and she gets pissed and tackles me full-on over the side of the raft and into the river.

And the water’s at least forty below zero. Well, not quite, but it was fucking cold enough to catch my testicles’ attention. Let’s just say I’m still waitin’ for my balls to drop. So we’re in the river, and she cops a feel while her man’s out of sight on his kayak. She looks at me with a mischievous grin, and we climb back in. She lays out on the raft. Her body’s forming beads of water because of the tanning lotion, and the little drops slip and slide exquisitely off her absolutely perfect curves.

Jesus. I can only imagine what it’d be like to fuck this specimen. But I divagate.

Pretty soon, everybody’s pushing each other into the river, and we’re having a blast. Russkie jumps off a rope-swing, and swims over to the raft. Minus her top. The girls start yelling, and her friend jumps in to cover her (beautiful, perky, round) tits up. Of course she doesn’t care; she’s fucking hammered and smilin’ from ear to ear like a fucking ignoramus. With perfect tits. Her boyfriend retrieves the top at light speed with his little kayak, and meanwhile everybody’s laughing their asses off.

By the time we got done, this girl had kicked me in the balls while I was standing up (for no other apparent reason other than to get my attention), fell off a kayak at least three times, and touched me in one form or another right around 1,139 times. And her boyfriend was noticing.

We get off at the exit park where our cars are parked, and her boyfriend pulls her aside for a little stern talking-to. I can only imagine what he’s saying. Next thing you know, they’re both storming off. In separate directions. And the Russkie is walking straight towards me.

Uh oh. It’s on.

She hops on the back, and we take off on my Ninja. Her hands make sure to cover every inch of my taut stomach and chest, a couple times playing with the waist line. I can feel her perky, round tits pressed real hard against my back. Needless to say, I was having small amounts of trouble keeping a straight line on the bike.

We burst into my bedroom, and we’re kissing desperately. I barely manage to kick the door closed when she rips my shorts off and starts going to work on me.

And she’s fucking going to town. I can tell she’s never seen one this big. I don’t know what they teach these girls in school in Russia, but this girl’s brains are sending chills to my penis till I feel like a genious (Fabolous). She’s waxin’ my dick with real fervor, and I can’t take it anymore. I pick her back up and throw her on the bed and rip her bikini off. She’s perfectly tan all the way around – nary a tan line. Her breasts are marvels in anatomy, and her stomach is flatter than my walls.

She’s absolutely perfect. And she’s lookin’ at me with those eyes. I look up at the sky, give a silent thanks, and throw it in like there ain’t no tomorrow. Her face contorts into a mixed expression of surprise and lust as I enter her. I can tell she’s feeling every last fucking inch of my madness.

Good Lord. It takes all of my concentration to keep from exploding over every wall and ceiling within a two-block radius. This girl is working me from above, her hands on my chest, gripping my pecs and squeezing my nipples. Then she gets down and starts sucking on me again, and starts alternating between bobbing on my dick and fucking me.

Then she gets up and lays down on the floor, with her back and legs propped straight up against the bed. She then slowly spreads her legs into a split, and motions me to come over there. This girl must be a fucking gymnast, too! I turn around and start throwing into her, and it’s the most insanely… “good” feeling I’ve ever had. I can’t even describe it.

It was like a fucking miracle. A straight-up revelation. In fact, I revelate all over her. Everywhere. My balls won’t stop.

I wipe her off, and she lays naked on top of me. She’s looking at me with eyes of satisfaction, and – dare I say it – love.

I think we might finally have something here.

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 13, 2005 | Permalink |

Yesterday I had the distinct pleasure of attending two different going-away parties in one evening. The first was my good buddy Terrence, who will be going to Australia for a year. The lucky bastard is going to love it there, and all the native blonde girls are going to fall all over his sexy American accent. And I have a good, strong feeling he’s gonna be coming home with a trophy girlfriend the next time I see him. Blonde and gorgeously tan, fit from surfing, and with the hottest accent, like, ever. Ever.

He threw a luau, which in itself isn’t exactly my favorite type of party, but he did a good job with the theme, and had leis for everyone, and more than enough jungle juice. The trick to making jungle juice that doesn’t suck ass is to make sure you’re buying only the freshest, ripest fruits (apples and watermelon are wonderful this time of year), and make sure you don’t mix the final product until the very last minute. As soon as the fruit starts soaking up the alcohol, you start having problems. Also, Grey Goose doesn’t hurt, either. I looked a little out of place with my untucked dress shirt and tie in the midst of tropical shirts and swimming suit tops. Sometimes, being the best-dressed in a room is a bad thing. Except when I get every girl’s attention at the party. Then their jealous boyfriends can eat a fat dick as I mob on their bitches.

I’m pretty sure I had too much to drink already, because I was starting to kick everyone’s ass at ping-pong. My brother showed up later, and we had that ball skipping so fast across the table that we gathered a small crowd of mind-boggled lookers-on. As kids, we had a ping-pong table, and we pride ourselves in being rather good at the game. We played doubles with a couple of drop-deads (blondes, of course), and walked away with a couple of numbers for later.

My buddy Jodie called and told me I had to come to her going-away, too. So I make my way downtown, pushing the vague idea that I might be too drunk to drive into the back of my mind. I arrive at Tom Grainey’s, and then all hell broke loose. A good ten or so very good friends of mine are all down with Jodie, and the tequila and SoCo are broken out in pretty villanous doses. The night became a blur after that, but a little bar hopping was in store and my drunk, smiling ass followed Jodie’s nice little ass around. We danced. A lot. She has this move where she’s all up on my shit, then she uses her arms around my hips to push me away, and at the exact moment the beat hits, she pulls me in and smacks my bone right into her pelvis. It’s so hot. I’m pretty sure I might have left a dent in there somewhere, as she got me well worked up. On my way out, I was told I had a full ten-minute-long ode to her ass in which my friend just stared at me and laughed at my face the entire time. Obviously, he’s more full of shit than I am, cause he had OBVIOUSLY not seen her ass. I’m pretty sure I called it a “miracle” a couple of times, actually. Yes, and I’m single, ladies.

After the bars closed, we went to the after-hours clubs, danced some more, and danced some more. At about four in the morn, we all decide (well, I had little to no say at this point) to go out to the world-famous Merritt’s Country Cafe for some good-ass scones and slightly edgy service. Insomniac Dave Attell loved it so much when he came here, he said he’d never have a better scone than this.

I stumble into the restaurant, and plop down next to a good-lookin’ Asian women. Just by looking at her I knew she didn’t shave down there. And God, I was drunk.

“Um, this is gonna sound a little weird, but would you mind if I just, like, layed my head on your lap?”

She looks at her friends, looks at me, and smiles. “No, go right ahead. You look kinda toasted.”

“Yes, yes, this is true.” I probably blabbed something about feminine hair-trimming products, but I can’t really remember. I lay my head down on her head and she starts running her hand on my head, and next thing I know she’s tapping me with her finger.

“Ok, get up. We’re leaving.”

“Wait, what?”

“We’re done, we’re going home.”

“What are you talking about, we just got here!”

“Buddy, you’ve been snoring on my lap for the last 45 minutes while we’ve been eating. We’re taking off.”

“Oh, shit.” I sit back up straight, disheveled and looking completely out of it. I look around, and there’s empty food plates and checks on the table. They weren’t fucking kidding. I really did pass out on her lap. Her and her friends take off, and I almost ask if I had dribbled on her jeans.

Which would have been super fucking lame.

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 10, 2005 | Permalink |

I’ve gotta hand it to Jon Stewart and his boys at The Daily Show for coming up with this gem. Below is an excerpt, completely and unequivocally ripped without any permission (God help me).

Congress: Quagmire of Freedom.

If the president is the head of the American body politic, Congress is its gastrointestinal tract. Its vast and convoluted inner workings may be mysterious and unpleasant, but in the end they excrete a great deal of material whose successful passage is crucial to our nation’s survival. This is Congress’s duty.

To understand the need for a legislative branch in a democracy, we must first acknowledge two central truths:

1. Society needs laws. While anarchy can often turn a humdrum weekend into something unforgettable, eventually the mob must be kept from stealing the conch and killing Piggy. And while it would be nice if that “something” was simple human decency, anybody who has witnessed the “50% Off Wedding Sale” at Filene’s Basement knows we need a backup plan – preferably in writing. On the other hand, too many laws can result in outright tyranny, particualrly if one of those laws is “Kneel before Zod.” Somewhere between these two extremes lies the legislative sweet-spot that produces just the right amount of laws for a well-adjusted society – more than zero, less than fascism.

2. People are busy. “Gee guys, I’d love to help you make some laws today, but the in-laws are coming this weekend and Jenny is gonna kill me if I don’t clean my shit out of the guest bedroom…uh huh…look, I’m sorry. I know this is an important appropriations bill, but I’m telling you, she’s still pissed at me for…well fine, don’t set aside monies for municipal improvements in district 12, see if I give a fuck.” A dedicated legislative branch is comprised of representatives to do the people’s work – giving citizens the freedom to pursue their own lives while still enjoying the benefits of a lawful society…even if they are too whipped to see it.

The Making of Congress: Hot Bicameral Action

When the Founders sat down to create this new civil order, they had two central truths in mind. One, representative democracy would be the most stable and lasting form of government. Two, when the Constitutional Convention wrapped up, they were all going to be out of work. The latter led to the formulation of what historians would come to know as the Madison Hypothesis. “What if,” opined the diminutive Virginian, “we created a national legislature copious enough in membership, and curious enough in structure, as to provide the whole of us with a gig for life?” Added Gouverneur Morris (PA), “Verily, should not the disigners of this government also be the stewards?” “We deserve a taste,” said Barzini, a legitimate craftsman from Rhode Island. “In sooth, we should be able to dip our beaks, know what I’m sayin’?” Barzini then moved that New Jersey’s John Witherspoon be kissed on the lips, signalling Witherspoon was now dead to him. That motion died in committee But the larger point was agreed upon.

With the Founders’ employment now secured, it was time to address specifics. What forumula would determine the makeup of this legislature? Should the criterion be population with every person* equally represented? Or should every state be equally represented? Should black people still count as 3/5ths? Isn’t even 5/16ths pushing it? Is it wise to found a new country using fractions at all? And is Franklin serious when he says “No Fat Chicks"?

* For purposes of this chapter, “person” still means “white males” up until 1870, then “males” up until 1920, then “all people but really just white people” until 1964.

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 9, 2005 | Permalink |

I’ve met some crazy bitches in my lifetime, but I think my girl Joy takes the cake by a nice margin. Actually, she takes the cake, eats some, then spreads the topping on her nipples and wants guys to lick it off.

I met with a couple of guys and a couple of girls that I’m good friends with, and we headed off to Hannah’s – a big bar with plenty of action and fun. Shots were poured, bombers were dropped, and we got drunk. We were having an assload of fun, up until Joy had too much to drink.

Then we started having a SHITload of fun.

In the two hours we were there, this girl had:

1. Lifted her skirt twice
2. Grinded on me with said skirt up and made me feel her “look how hard it is!” ass.
3. Flashed her (beautiful) boobs at least four times.
4. Had a deep conversation with a stripper.
5. Made out with said stripper ten minutes later.
6. Received a piggyback ride from said stripper on the way to be going home together (!).
7. Had every guy’s full attention in the entire immediate zip code.

Oh, she’s no ho, either. In fact, when she’s sober, she’s very composed, calm, and friendly. She’s your typical Kentucky white girl (minus the drawl, the double-wide, and the missing teeth), raised on good family values and all your typical good-girl shit.

But she got annihilated. As in stumbling-all-over-the-place, where’s-my-lollipop kinda drunk.

I’ve gotta hand it to that stripper, she knew exactly what was going on the entire time. I have a feeling it wasn’t the first time she’s taken an innocent girl home. God, it was so hot when they were making out, I almost started humping the nearest leg in sight. After they finished, I heard the stripper tell her friend aside, “GOD I wanna take this girl home!” If even at all possible, my erection doubled right there.

So the bar closes, and we’re enjoying the weather outside, waiting to figure out how everybody’s going home – specifically, Joy. The girls spend the majority of the time trying to convince Joy not to go home with the hot stripper, meanwhile all the guys were giving her silent “go-for-its” when they weren’t looking. The stripper got tired of being cockblocked by all the girls (welcome to the club!), so she gave up and left. I think I heard a collective audible sigh of sadness from pretty much every male on Sixth street.

Turns out everybody was way too drunk to drive, so I volunteered to be the DD (I had only one drink earlier, and to be honest, I had more fun watching everybody’s drunk asses while sober than I probably would have while drunk.) Everybody (five people plus me) piled into my sedan, and off we went. I had two sets of pumps spilling over around my head, and Joy had the passenger seat.

She had a lollipop, and I’ll be damned if I ever let her have a lollipop in my vicinity again. The things… oh, the things she did with that lollipop gave me the chills – and a good idea what other things she was capable of. I’m pretty sure I saw the whole white stick disappear into her mouth and back out again once, the whole while maintaining eye contact with me.

Some things just ain’t right, ya know?

So she cuddles up on my lap while the four in the backseat are having a rowdy good time with a camera. And woops, her hand snakes its way between my legs. Umm, great. So now she’s cupping my balls and is resting her drunk head on my other head, and my mind floats far away, dreaming of what I would do to this girl when I take her home.

But she’s drunk, I can’t. Then again, she’d never remember a thing. In fact, I’m positive she’s still blacking out at this point, because she can barely walk.

But then again, her hand is quite vigorously feeling my testicles. But yet again, I’d be taking advantage of her.

But damn, the lollipop! I mean, did anybody else see that? Anybody? How she stuck the whole thing – anybody?!

After dropping off the others we arrive at Jody’s place, where the girls are going to crash. My mind is racing, trying to decide what to do with this fuck-ready piece of fine Kentucky ass. I could go inside with Jody and Joy, and “take care of her” while Jody goes to sleep, or I could just walk away and let her be.

They walk up the stairs, Joy barely hanging on. I stay at the bottom, and I get a nice, long, panoramic view of her perfectly-shaped ass in her hiked-up skirt.

Good Lord.

“Dick, you asshole, stop staring at her ass.”

Woops! Guess not!

By Robert Shagwell | Jul 8, 2005 | Permalink |