If the days of the week were people, Monday would be the biggest douchebag alive. I hate Mondays.

I had an eventful weekend, and by “eventful,” I mean that one particular event made my entire weekend lick asshole.

My Friday night began when I arrived at a friend’s house with 42 beers to play some beer pong. I drank about 20 of them throughout the night and went outside to smoke a cigarette. My friend Rachel kept trying to punch me in the balls, so I decided to step off the deck for a little personal space. Because of the severe level of my intoxicatedness, my feet failed and I rolled my ankle on the steps of the deck, fall off and stubbed my big toe directly on the ground.

The initial pain felt like I broke my ankle, but since there was no snap or breaking sound, I knew it was only a sprain. Great, I sprained my ankle. An injury fit for a 4-year-old girl, not a Spartan warrior like myself. Naturally, I got up a minute later and played it off like a tough guy.

After a few minutes of laughter and another beer, I noticed that my sandal felt wet like I stepped in a puddle. The pain in my ankle had subsided and it became more apparent that I may had done some damage to my toe when I stubbed it. I walked inside into the light and looked down to see my sandal filling up with blood and dripping over the side.

Pretend you took a big nasty glob of peanut butter and put it on the tip of your big toe. Now, pretend that peanut butter was actually a bunch of blood and guts – that’s what my toe looked like. There was a gigantic deep gouge taken out of my toe, but still attached by a thin flap of skin. I flipped the flap back over my toe and went into the bathroom to wash it off.

Since I was pretty much shitfaced at this point, I had a full medical staff of friends taking care of me. While one of my friends bandaged my toe, there was a blinding flash of light and a powerful voice spoke to me from the heavens. It said:

“Dustin, you should now come to realize how truly awesome of a man you are. Look at that mustache. Even I, God, am envious of your ultimate glory. Only a truly divine individual could have a group of people tending to them in times of such a horrific and disgusting injury brought upon by themselves. You sir, will become a legend!”

He was right. I could’ve probably asked them to pluck the stray pubes from my taint with their teeth if I wanted. I decided to milk it and see what I could get away with. I asked Steve to get me a beer.

“Fuck you, Dustin. I was sitting right here while you had that whole divine conversation with yourself. Weirdo.”

The next morning, I awoke with minimal recollection of the night. I put my foot down on the ground with a thud and felt a sharp pain shoot up my leg. When I looked down, there was a trickle of fresh pus and blood oozing out from the deep slice that ran around the tip of my toe. The tip was purple like a raging erection ready to explode.

Since I’m so tough, I decided not to get stitches, so I let it bleed for 24 hours. Now I’ve got a handsome flap of dead skin that will eventually fall off and leave my toe looking lopsided. On the bright side, I get to wear sandals at work all week. I also learned a very valuable lesson after all this:

If you’re going to get hurt, make sure you’re really drunk first because it doesn’t hurt nearly as bad.

Imagine this tragic scene on the side of the highway:

You’re stuck in traffic for hours as ambulances and firetrucks creep up past you on the shoulder. When you arrive at the accident, you see an SUV with a minor damage to the front-end. Five hundred feet down the road, what used to be a car is now a crumpled pile of burning steel and rubber. Bloodied limbs, ripped from someone’s body lay scattered all over the scene.

“Wow, I wonder what kind of vehicle that used to be. A go-kart maybe,” you think to yourself.

I’m going to pause for a sec to point out that “thinking to yourself” is a really stupid saying. Of course you’re fucking thinking to yourself. Does anyone else have their brain in someone else’s head? Back to the story.

So what was that hunk of crushed metal? A Smart car, of course!

I just can’t understand the appeal of driving a glorified matchbox car around. Sure, the gas mileage is probably great, but that has to be the only benefit of buying one. How about the main reason to not buy one – they look like a baby shoe on wheels.

I hope these cars come without airbags. What’s the point? You’ll get into an accident and your top half will be fine, meanwhile your lower half is crushed like the dreams of a child with AIDS. I’d rather just die.

Instead of airbags, they should install deathbags to ensure that you aren’t suffering in excruciating pain while the fire department removes your mangled body from the wreckage. Basically, the deathbags are deployed upon crash impact and gives you a heavy dose of toxic gas that kills you in the most peaceful way.

What if you own a Smart car and you have twin babies? You’d have to stack them on top of each other in the passenger seat. Get into an accident and one of them goes flying through the windshield as the bottom of its car seat scrapes the face of the baby on the bottom. Brutal!

I guess one additional minor benefit of buying a Smart car is the fact that you most likely won’t get pulled over for speeding, as these cars are unlikely to be able to drive faster than your average Flintstone.

People, please re-think your decision the next time you plan on buying a Smart car. I don’t want to have to be worried about triple-checking my mirrors every time I change lanes because of some tiny shitbox that fits perfectly into my blind spot.

For additional fun, check out the crash test video and have a terrible – err, fun – weekend!

The missing piece to my personality

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After about 6 weeks of not shaving my beard, I grew bored with my facial hair.

I’ve decided to bring back the old Western-style ’stache.

Being that my first name is Dustin, it seems appropriate to call this the Dustache.

So far, I’ve had about 99% negative looks and comments about it. This doesn’t phase me because I feel like if I was born to wear any kind of fur on my face, it should look like this. It compliments my mullet (not visible in the picture) quite well, actually.

You must embrace the Dustache and love it.

Obama’s nuts in critical danger

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I hate politics. Occasionally, I’ll watch a video of McCain, Hillary, Bush, Obama, or any of those other douchetards and vow that I will never vote in an election. I have remained politically neutral because I feel that it’s much more satisfying to just sit back and watch the Democrats and Republicans fuck our country up. I can always say, “Don’t blame me – I didn’t vote for the guy.”

People say to me, “You should really become more active and vote. Don’t you care what happens to this country?”

My answer is no. As long as there’s a place better than America to hang out, I’ll just bail out and head over there if it becomes too shitty to live over here.

“Suckerrrrs!”

There are certain people of fame who are always sticking their noses into politics. One thing we’ve learned about celebrities – whether they are actors, musicians, or athletes – is that a large majority of them are completely fucking retarded, so it only makes sense that they would want to get involved in politics.

Most of you know who the great Reverend Jesse Jackson is. Aside from being completely insane, he is also a religious icon that a lot of people look up to.

Jesse’s younger years. He looks like Will Smith with a mustache.

Jackson is one of the biggest reverse racists of our time. A reverse racist is a hypocritical bigot that blames all of the world’s problems on other racists. This man lives for the opportunity to talk about ethnic discrimination. He dreams about killing Nazis at night. He shits racist turds.

Although he has slipped up and been called out on his bullshit countless times, people still stand around and listen to what he says – and they agree with him. If you are one of Jackson’s fans, please have someone repeatedly smash your genitals with a large brick so you can’t reproduce.

Today, Jackson made a public apology to Barack Obama after claiming that the Illinois senator “talks down to black people.” He expressed his anger further by saying, “I’d like to cut his nuts off.”

Eloquently put, Reverend.

Jackson didn’t even know he was being recorded at the time. He whispered the insults under his breath to the person next to him. He later retracted his statements and said that he’s actually a big fan of Obama. I understand how Jackson feels – I always want to cut off the nuts of people that I respect.

After his apology, Jackson claimed that he was a little annoyed with the way Obama addresses the black community – speaking down on them. A comment by Obama about black men being bad fathers also angered Jackson. I tried to find out if it’s common for black men to be terrible fathers, but none of the black women I talked to knew where their baby daddy was.

OMG, I’m just kidding. Don’t cut my nuts off!

The right to remain roadkill

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Any time a fuck cops up… I mean a cop fucks up, I love writing about it. If I can get pulled over and fined $125 for not signaling during a turn, a cop can definitely be featured in sidecarsally for killing a person.

I’m going to rename Florida to FAILida because at least a third of my stories come from there, including this one.

On Sunday, officer Chad Scott was responding to a domestic disturbance at a house. As he pulled up to the residence, he noticed Angela Tanner laying in her driveway. Too bad she didn’t notice him.

Officer Scott tried to swerve and avoid her, but failed and drove directly over her body at the blazing speed of 15 mph. This is the equivalent of being stabbed to death really slow by a butter knife.

Angela was pronounced dead on the scene and the officer was placed on administrative leave to cope with the shock of killing a civilian. There’s still no explanation for why Angela was even laying in the driveway, but I think I figured it out:

The husband is a mastermind. He devised the best way to murder your wife and get off clean.

Step 1: Beat your wife until she calls 911.

Step 2: Chase her outside and whack her over the head with a sock full of sand so she passes out in the driveway.

Step 3: Conceal her body in the shadows of the driveway and wait for the cops to pull in. *SQUISH*

Step 4: Act really upset by her death, but watch with joy as medical examiners are unable to prove anything other than this was just a freak accident.

It’s like an episode of CSI. However, since this is Florida , the husband will most likely try the exact same stunt with his next wife and get busted.

Finally though, a domestic disturbance call that actually turned out to be pretty interesting!