And yeah, that’s pretty much what it is.
But no, I was fucking with you—that’s not at all what it is.
Championship gaming is a mindset, bro. It’s a mentality. It’s a way of life.
It’s about knowing, in the marrow of your bones, in the chambers of your heart and the fiery depths of your soul, that you—and only you—are the most dominant, most destructive, most unstoppable force known to man.
I have become danger. I have become death. I have become the terror of the shadows that haunts you in your nightmares and hides under your bed waiting to jump-scare you screaming, “BAAAHAHAHAGRRRAHH!” when you least expect it.
When I kill you in a game—and I will—I’m not just beating you. I’m not just scoring points or winning bragging rights or adding another trophy to the mountain of trophies I already have. I’m demoralizing you. I’m destroying your social confidence. I’m taking your very essence and offering your pixelated blood to the Blood God. I am taking everything you are and everything you had hoped to be.
That is what being a championship gamer means.
Now, I ask you—could I be all those things, could I have that killer spirit and devotion to pure berserker dominance, if I was fucking six foot two??
Could I embrace the champion’s way of life if my body was anything less than the perfectly chiseled, diamond-cut, forged-in-the-eternal-fires-of-Mount-Doom athletic phenomenon it is?
Could I be the one-and-only Dr Disrespect if my vertical leap was only thirty-six inches?
The truth is so crystal clear I don’t even know why we’re talking about it. You need physical dominance to be a winner. You need incredible height and supercharged athleticism to be a champion. You need an insane vertical leap to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.
In anything: video games, life, love, video games. Anything!
But I don’t judge you for your ignorance. Just kidding—of course I judge you. But I also pity you. You simply can’t understand how important in life it is to be physically superior to your fellow man—because, well, you’re probably not.
Don’t believe me?
Here’s what I want you to do. Right now, I want you to get off your ass—no, don’t put down the book, you gotta keep reading so I can order you around—and I want you to go look in the mirror. Yes, at yourself.
Now, we got two options here, right? Either a) you’re a flabby, pear-shaped, cellulite-dimpled Grimace-body, or b) you’re a skinny, stick-figure, stringy-muscled punk. Don’t argue. You’re definitely one of those two. That’s just the way it is.
Now, the honest truth is that I, the Doc, the Two-Time himself, love you just the way you are. You go right ahead and be ridiculously out of shape. Have an ass the size of a semitruck. Have shoulders so bony they could cut glass. It seriously doesn’t matter to me, because I’m rich and successful and inherently kind enough to love everyone, even you.
But after reading those straight-up facts about your body, how do you feel? Pretty shitty, right?
And trapped in that physical reality—a reality of being perpetually shorter, squatter, thinner or fatter, and less athletic than myself—you’ll never have my powerful mentality. You’ll never comprehend what it means to be a superstar hyper-dominant killing machine.
So what do we do about it?
Unfortunately for you, pretty much nothing.
I wish I could tell you that my physique is this impressive because I worked hard at it. Or even because I worked at all. I wish I could give you some list of turbocharged, foolproof exercises and dietary supplements that would magically transform you from a completely average, totally unimpressive human being into something Herculean.
But the reality is that all that garbage about the importance of working out and eating right and living a healthy lifestyle—it’s all just a bunch of people trying to sell you shit you don’t need and crap that won’t work.
I was born this way, man. I’m incredibly in shape, but I’ve never worked out a day in my life.
I’m so fast, I could beat Usain Bolt in the forty-meter dash right now—RIGHT NOW—and I literally haven’t stood up from my jet-black rich-Corinthian-leather couch in thirty days.
I’m so strong, I would dominate Dolph Lundgren in a steel-cage death match, even though I gotta admit Red Scorpion is way underrated.
And I’m six foot eight because, well, I’m six foot eight. I’ve never taken growth hormones. I’ve never even drunk a full glass of whole milk. As far as I’m concerned, calcium is for pussies.
I’m not gonna lie and say you can have any of these things, because you can’t. It’s just not in you. But I can help you fake it—at least for an afternoon.
How? Easy. Go RIGHT NOW to InterdimensionalChampionsClub.gg for your very own DOMINEX, BY DOC official athleticism-in-a-box kit. (Shit, isn’t it fucking awesome not having Nigel the Editor around to fuck with my game when I’m trying to help my loyal fans—and earn a tiny bit of cheddar on the side?)
For the low, low price of $195.95, not including shipping and handling or an additional $59.95 I literally just decided to add to the price, you’ll get delivered to your home address a large cardboard box that contains everything you need to pretend to be athletically superior like the Two-Time for a full afternoon, give or take.
Your completely non-customized DOMINEX, BY DOC will include:
One (1) Pair of Adjustable Stilts and/or a Couple of Tin Cans You Can Strap to Your Feet (Six Foot Eight Maximum Height)
One (1) Pair of Extra-Long Pants (Burlap)
One (1) Pair of Attachable Turbo-Loaded Compound Springs That May or May Not Be Broken Slinkies
One (1) Official DOMINEX, BY DOC Man Girdle, or “Mirdle”
One (1) Advanced Prototype Foam-Rubber Muscleman Bodysuit
That’s Pretty Much It
Now, I know what you’re thinking.
You’re thinking, “Doc, that sounds like a pile of crap I could buy at any flea market for maybe a dollar seventy-five. What gives?”
And
