OK, so let me make one thing clear: I know I make the best potato salad in all of Illinois. It’s a recipe that took me years to perfect, and while I won’t divulge all the secret ingredients, I will say that the dollop of pickle relish is just one of many little touches that puts it over the top. In a perfect world, my product would be judged exclusively on its merits without my having to resort to extreme measures, but sadly, here we are. So you tell me what’s so unethical about using the Death Note to make sure I win the Logan County Potato Salad Cook-Off this year.
And I don’t want to hear all that bullshit about competing fairly, either. Need I remind you that I’ve now been doing that for three years, and I’ve never even been so much as the runner-up? Even Vera Hofstedt came in second last year, and I swear to Christ she’s just buying the pre-made stuff at Harvest Market and adding paprika and tarragon to it. I’d stake my life on that. Also, don’t think I haven’t noticed that Beth Skronski’s brother-in-law Nathan is one of the judges. Where’s the shocked look and condescending lecture for Beth?
Also, that Death Note landed on my property, and you yourself told me that shinigami don’t take a vested interest in the actions of their humans. I don’t care that this is an “appallingly stupid and offensive use of the notebook that you just couldn’t ignore.” I can do with it what I wish. It just so happens that wish is to murder 9 innocent members of my community to ensure I take home this year’s novelty crown and Cracker Barrel gift certificate.
And I use the word “innocent” VERY liberally here. What kind of sick, twisted fuck buys grocery store potato salad and tries to pass it off as their own in a competition? I labor for hours to make sure my potato salad is perfect, from painstakingly choosing the ideal bag of Yukon gold potatoes to measuring out the perfect amount of celery seed to the milligram. I’ve deserved top honors in this competition since the day I deigned to grace that piteous sign-up sheet with my signature, and I will have my day, even if it kills me.
Er, I mean, even if it kills 9 of my friends and acquaintances.
I think we’re done here. You’ve made a few decent counterarguments to the idea of me hastily scribbling the other competitors’ names down, with the most convincing of which being how suspicious it’ll look when they all die of heart attacks in rapid succession moments before the competition begins, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. For now, I’ve got that crown in my sights and nobody, be they human or tenebrous Shinto deity, will stand in my way.
Now, where did I put my pen?
