So drive it, my man. Get behind that wheel, put the key in that ignition, and drive that baby like you’ve never driven before. Trust me—even while the cops are dragging you away, even while they’re slapping the cuffs on your weak wrists and tossing your flabby, sorry butt behind bars for grand theft auto, you’ll know it was all worth it.

And you’ll never, ever again want to drive anything other than a Lamborghini.

I. Whatever dimension you’re in, talk to your doctor to see if your lazy ass can actually handle real exercise. Because in my dimension, I’m not liable for any of that shit if you have a heart attack.

II. This is not my real address in any dimension. I’m way too smart to give out such confidential information to my thousands of enemies, and I’m way too cool to live on Rich Guy Street. I’d obviously only live on the much fancier Rich Guy Boulevard. Which isn’t, uh, my real address either. So definitely do NOT Google Map that also-fake address if you’re one of my thousands of enemies.

CHAPTER 8 THE SECRET BEHIND WHAT, EXACTLY, I’M A DOCTOR OF

Yeah, that’s right—it’s finally here.

The question Nigel the Editor has been bugging me about ever since we first met at the New York City App Lebeés.

The question everyone all over the world always wants the answer to—I mean seriously, people stop me on the street, in the middle of E3, and even at the top secret Ralphs I do all my grocery shopping at, and they really do ask me this question.

They all want to know—Doc, what, exactly, are you a doctor of?

And look, I’ll admit I’ve been a little cagey about it in the past, all right? I’ll admit that I kinda enjoyed giving you all the runaround.

I’ll tell people, “I don’t know, maybe I’m a doctor of philosophy, learned in the ways of Plato and Aristotle and The Secret, with a top degree from DeVry University. Maybe I’m a doctor of psychology, because I’m always in my opponent’s head. Maybe I’m a doctor of jurisprudence, because I lay down the law and then I break it. Or maybe ‘Doctor’ is just my first name on my birth certificate, designated legally by myself on the day I was born.”

Depending on the person who asks, depending on the mood I’m in, depending on the dimension, I’ll spew out a new answer like a fart in the wind.

Why not? I’m an arrogant dick, and it’s fun to mess with you—so what else is new?

But guess what? I’m not an arrogant dick. I was just kidding. I’m a nice guy, a generous guy.