“Well,” Larry said, “we have been thinking of changing it to Google.”
“Come on!” I shouted. “That’s even worse!”
“Great talk, Doc,” Larry said. “So if that’s everything, we’ll just be on our way…”
Slowly they started edging away. In a flash, the serrated blade of my knife was inches from Larry’s throat.
“I have one more condition,” I whispered menacingly. “And it’s nonnegotiable.”
They stood there, trembling.
“I want that ham sandwich we talked about earlier today.”
“That… that was actually a week ago,” Larry whimpered. “You’ve been out for a while.”
“Whatever,” I said. “I am so goddamn hungry, it’s crazy. Must have something to do with destroying your lab and breaking Paul’s nose with my bare hands while maintaining a superhuman metabolism.”
His hands quivering, Larry pulled out his wallet and gave me a twenty-dollar bill. For exactly 1.2 milliseconds I thought about giving him a firm handshake—but I decided he wasn’t worthy and would possibly straight-up poop his pants if I touched him.
So instead, I got myself a delicious ham sandwich for lunch.
Of course, like I predicted, their stupid video game controller was a total flop. Never even manufactured a working prototype. It was simply impossible for them to mimic my skill, my timing, or my reflexes with their advanced artificial-intelligence processors. Technology just can’t handle the unique excellence that is Dr Disrespect.
A few years later Larry and Sergey did end up doing something else, something pathetic like search engine optimization, nothing cool like video games. Apparently my .015 share of the company would’ve netted me something like, I don’t know, $72 million or something?
But you know what? It was totally worth it. Never again would I forget just how much I was worth. Never again would I let someone push me around in a negotiation. Never again would I lose sight of my one true goal of absolute world domination.
And best of all, that ham sandwich really hit the fucking spot. If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still taste it.
I. Seriously, no fucking idea what dimension this is anymore. Let’s call it Dimension Δ, just because mood: Greek demigod.
CHAPTER 7 THE SECOND TIME I DROVE A LAMBORGHINI (AND HOW YOU CAN DRIVE ONE TOO)
Why does it always have to be “the first time I did this, the first time I did that”?
If I want to write in gripping, powerful detail about the second time I drove a Lambo, that’s what I’m gonna do, and you’re gonna like it. Got that, Nigel the Editor?
So it turns out that the second time I drove a Lamborghini Diablo happened thanks to my second professional sponsor. Yeah, the circle of life is a beautiful thing, people. Soon after I taught the nerd-punks at Oogle a lesson they probably forgot immediately, I was approached by Popeyes with another deal.
They offered me a lifetime all-you-can-eat supply of Popeyes fried chicken, and all I had to do was go on TV, bite into a drumstick, and say, “My name might be Dr Disrespect, but there’s one thing this Doctor does respect, and that’s Popeyes fried chicken. It makes the minimap in my mouth go craaaaazy!”
But since I’d learned my lesson, and the Two-Time doesn’t forget, I refused to do a thing for them unless they paid me a cool half million dollars and changed my line to “My name is Dr Disrespect, and I’ll eat this crapola because they’re paying me.”
Guess what? The morons went for it. All the suits kept babbling about how much they loved my “authenticity” and could I please remove my serrated hunting blade from their jugular, and they signed then and there. Again, that’s on them for not checking my secret ankle sheath.
So not only am I still able to eat as much Popeyes as I want to this day—and honestly, those sandwiches are like fried heaven—but I also got to replace my black-and-white Sanyo with a color Sanyo, to buy new curtains for my little shithole apartment, and to blow all the rest of my money on my very own brand-new completely blacked-out 1998 Lamborghini Diablo.
And if I’m being honest, the Lambo was so damn expensive I actually had to borrow an extra twenty bones from Razor Frank just to close the deal.
Now, look, I know what you’re thinking: “Doc, is it really wise financial planning to spend all your money on a high-performance gas-guzzling exotic sports car when you can barely afford to eat?”
And for once I’m actually happy for the interruption because:
1) If you were paying attention, you’d know I’d just earned a lifetime supply of delicious Popeyes chicken, so all I ate was fried chicken morning, noon, and night for every meal of the day until my veins were pumping pure gravy, and feathers were coming out my pores and my nose until I could barely breathe and I thought I was gonna die. So that was awesome.
2) You clearly—CLEARLY—have never driven a Lambo.
I know this because the moment I drove a Lamborghini Diablo for the very first time—remember that? Back when I rented one to get to my second Blockbuster Video Game Championship back in 1994?—I knew that I would not stop, would not rest, would not even truly live until I owned my very own Lambo. I’d do anything to get my hands on one, all right? ANYTHING! And no one who’s actually driven a Lamborghini for themselves could possibly feel any different.
Driving a Lamborghini is like injecting pure violence, pure speed, pure momentum directly into your aorta. Everything you do, the very reality you experience, is transported to a whole new level on the cosmic plane.
Step into the driver’s seat and you’re in a Chariot of the Gods. Turn the key in the ignition and watch the phoenix be reborn in a burst of flames. The engine rumbles and you feel the vibrations in your loins, the earthquake in your soul. Grip the steering wheel and you’re wrestling with a bloodthirsty panther. Then you put your foot
