Matt, a name which strikes terror into the hearts of ne’er-do-well and supervillians alike, is also the name of a man whose origins have ever been shrouded in mystery.  Until now.  Yes, thanks to recent breakthroughs in the exciting and lucrative field of just making stuff up and hoping people will read it anyway, many of the dark and sequestered mysteries surrounding this remarkable man  have at last been unraveled, and his tale of heroism can at last be told.  Which I am about to do.  Right now.  In this next paragraph.

 

            Matt was born in Richmond, Virginia, or possibly in the interminable wastelands of the Knaar Province of the forbidden World of Hthraak.  Either way, his parents were (and still are, lest you worry) intergalactically famous ninja warp theorists.  As a result, young Matt spend many of his formative years flying around in a Devornian Hyper RV, solving zany mysteries and being exposed to various radioactive substances which would someday grant him a mind-boggling array of super powers useful for picking up buildings and anecdotes useful for picking up girls.  Long did he tarry in the aeon-blasted plains of Hrotok, where ageless epochs ago the diaphanous Kralar Beasts filtered down from distant and unseemly stars, but now where only the lugubrious spatula mammoths of Zod scurry to and fro.  Matt punched a lot of them in the face, but lugubrious spatula mammoths are, for the most part, buttheads, so no harm was done, and it served to hone his skills in battle.

 

            After he reached the Age of Ascension, Matt did as all his forefathers had done since the first Greltak was spawned from the primordial seas of Zrug, and went to the nameless abyss of pain known in the tongues of man as Falling Creek Middle School.  There he began at last to press his crimefighting skills into service, after a certain unnamable band director (who we shall simply refer to as Mr. Weaseltrousers) threw a bus at him.  He then met Samuel L. Jackson in a comic book shop and after learning his true destiny from him, vanquished him, as he would so many other servants of evil in years to come.

           

            In that fateful summer of the Year of the No-Legged Hamster, Matt traveled high in the Himalayas to the forgotten and desuetudinous monastery of Monag the Vile (who is really a terribly nice fellow, who merely had the misfortune to inherit one of the least desirable family names to be found in Tibet).  There he learned the ancient art of ham mastery, as well as the methods by which baboons are converted into gumdrops.  His roommate was a Yeti named Carl (though he may have just been a Sherpa with a back-hair problem), and they went on all manner of wacky misadventures, paintballing yaks, and getting into Old Farmer Xolag’s vegetable garden.

 

            Matt was called away from this place of refuge and meditation though, when he learned that his nemesis, Matt Damon, was trying to unravel the very fabric of the universe and act like a big ol’ ‘tard.  Fortunately, all those years of mammoth-punching had not been in vain, and soon the damonic menace was no more.  Matt then went crazy, Broadway Style, and proceeded to take part in an altogether impressive montage in the big city, featuring the Rockettes, a panoply of different urban-looking neon signs, and Rudy Guliani singing the Banana Boat song (it was far to weird to even imagine, so I’d advise you not to try if you value your sanity).

 

            After this, Matt moved on to Meadowbrook High School, which, as I’m sure you all already know, is in fact an elite academy for superheroes (and more than a few skanks) owned by Captain Picard and Henry Kissinger.  While there, he single-handedly slaughtered the nest of Zoltrogs which had been dwelling beneath the cafeteria and yoinking all the breadtangles of pizza every night.

 

            From thence, he spent some years traveling around the untamed wilds of Virginia (or as it is often called, The Nebraska of the East).  There he wrestled with grizzly bears and his own inner turmoil, eventually emerging victorious over both, and making a totally sweet battle coat out of the one (the bear, I mean.  He tried to make a totally sweet battle coat out of his own personal demons, but it just looked really grungy and smelled like old automatic transmission fluid and beans).  Once, he punched a Nazi off of a flaming zeppelin, and another time, Jimmy Carter was about to wreck an orphanage with a giant mechanical spider he built, and Matt selflessly crashed his Sport Utility Vehicle into it, foiling yet another plan by Jimmy Carter to establish anew his ungodly reign of terror over the helpless.

 

            These days, Matt lives in Charlottesville, where he patrols the streets of that fabled burg by night (and sometimes just after brunch), rounding up hooligans, mountebanks, scoundrels, scalawags, and the original cast of Battlestar Galactica.  Though exact details are sketchy at best, one supposes that he has some sort of a funky orbital Watch Tower fortress thingie in geosynchronous orbit high above the surface of the Earth.  Or maybe he just rooms with some other dude to save money on rent, one can rarely say which with certainty.  Among his non-heroic activities, Matt maintains an active and cogitative blog, to which I would publish the link, but I’m sure he’ll leave me a comment after I get this posted and then you can just click on it.  So there.  So before I sign off for the day, thanks Smatt, for making the world a safer, and more awesomer place in which to reside.