Superiority is Complex

Some blogs would start off like this:

"Well, it's official! I need to do my laundry!"

The joke being that this announcement is of no consequence to anyone but the author. This is the primary joke of many blogs, knowingly ironic self-promotion. Yet one has to ask, if the joke of your blog is that you're writing about things that no one cares about in a way suggesting that they should care, then despite your clever style (you sly dog), nothing you're talking about will ever possibly interest another human being on the planet, the only exceptions of course being those people whose only form of interaction with outsiders is by the reading of blogs. So either it doesn't concern you but pretends to, or its the only thing that will ever concern you, and you're a waste of carbon. Regardless of which side you're on, you're wasting everyone else's time by existing. So why bother?

What I'm saying is, why bother with your own blogs, when mine is so goddamned interesting. I'm not ironically promoting here; I am confirming fact. Based on the afformentioned logic, nothing any of you have to say to me will ever matter. Subsequently, you're all reading blogs in the hopes of some sort of entertainment that books, film, music, politics, religion, games, love and conversation have failed to provide. This truly is the 21st Century, after all. Shouldn't technology wield some sort of all-inclusive source of joy for the masses to behold? You're damn right it should.

And it's name is Me. Matt Shore.

I don't want to sound arrogant, but it is impossible to sound arrogant when you are so goddamned handsome.

Why am I so much better than everything anyone else has to say?

Example.

Famous blogger Maddox wrote an article about how to "Kill Yourself Like a Man." Some of these are very funny. However, Maddox failed to note the absolute sweetest method of suicide.

Putting a Mafia Hit on Yourself.

Think about it. You're gonna die. It's going to happen. You've already made the call. Now your life is a running countdown to murder, and you're the only one with the balls to stop it. Can you imagine a more fun scenario than trying to outwit your own death plot? It's like you're both James Bond and Goldfinger at the same time. Every time you put the key in the ignition, there's a chance that you'll explode harder than a Sicilian Wife on Christmas. That's hard shit, my friend. Hell, I'd plant a bomb in my own car, so when my murderers came to plant another, it'd set the first bomb off, killing them. Do you understand how pissed off the second wave of murderers would be that the first guys couldn't kill me? They would hunt me day and night, waiting for the time to strike.

This is phase two:

ELABORATE HOME ALONE STYLE PRANKS.

As the hitmen enter my home, they might be surprised to find my brother's snake hidden within the doorknob. BICKETY-BITE! Looks like Mario and Luigi just got a ride on the Cobra Express. All aboard for the poison ward, bitch.
If they survive the initial snakings, they'll be too dazed to suspect my next ghoulish masterpiece. As they saunter into my foyer (pronounced "Foy-Yay"), they step onto my persian rug. But instead of standing comfortably on the ground, they are immediately cut in half by my dad's buzzsaw collection, concealed and spring-loaded within a nearby armoir, cleverly designed to look like a stuffed kodiak bear! Assuming the top halves of them survive, they'll crawl down the basement stairs (over sticky Hot Wheels cars covered in gluuuuueeee) and onto a field of landmines disguised as mousetraps. Then as they flutter over to the fuse box in an attempt to cut the power, they'll be too disoriented to notice that instead of a wires and switches, there'll be a human head in a jar, and the human head will have a note on it that says, "EAT IT, VEG-OUTS!" But it won't be just any head. It'll be my head. Cut off by my own katana and placed in the jar near the fusebox by my still writhing body earlier in the day. In the moment of confusion, the hitmen will fail to notice the people approaching them from behind. Then--BLAM BLAM!!!--they're shot dead by a third wave of hitmen, hired by my torso to protect my head.

As the third set of hitment leave the house, they spraypaint the word "Condemned" on the front door. Then they are eaten. By Leopards.

If you can think of a sweeter way to die than that, you're probably Jesus, although I'm pretty sure we all know which way he'd go out.

O.D.-ing on coke while covered in stripper blood, motherfucker!!!!

If this hasn't proven to you that I know what I'm talking about, you should hear what I did to the bitch who didn't like my poem.

No clues.

No hints.

but it does involve the phrase 'rat guillotine'