But what I do know is that this story, the one I’m about to tell you, is the best one so far. Except maybe for that one where I did whatever it was in Dimension Whatever. Yeah, that was a great story, and this one probably isn’t as good as that one, but it’s still really fucking good.

It’s the story of Doc—that’s me—fighting the greatest enemy I’ve ever faced in my entire life: my own boredom. Also an ancient global criminal network of bloodthirsty killers run by the evil Lord Hannn, and their just-as-ancient illegal cutthroat international video game tournament called the Kumite Except for Video Games and Also It’s Real (KEFVGAAIR), filled with the top gaming champions the world had to offer, not to mention thousands of other psychos and hoodlums with knives and guns and bazookas. But really my own boredom.

All right, so it was 2001. I was sitting there in my top secret lair one night toward the end of the year, staring emptily at my massive state-of-the-art 164-inch Fujitsu plasma TV.

Fuck, that thing was big. At least eleven inches bigger than my last Fujitsu.

I had just finished playing Halo for the very first time. It had just been released—not to the public, but to superstars like me—and it was revolutionary. First-person shooter. Multiplayer. 3D. Fast, responsive, intuitive, violent. Possibly the greatest game ever created. And using my advanced prototype experimental Xbox, I’d just hosted an online showdown between myself and the fifteen best gamers in America.

And I’d dominated them all. Because of course I did.

Because I’m the Doc. Because I’m the Two-Time.

Because duh.

I couldn’t believe it. I was playing the greatest video game of all time against the greatest players in the nation, and I was fucking bored.

My campaign for Popeyes a couple years earlier, officially titled “My Name Is Dr Disrespect, and I’ll Eat This Crapola Because They’re Paying Me,” had been a huge fucking success.

A lot of people ate fried chicken because of that ad. I saw a CDC report that said I was directly responsible for the average American adding thirteen pounds and two heart attacks that year.

After that, the sponsorships started flooding in, baby.

Ray-Ban paid me to pretend my advanced prototype Sony scopes were just normal sunglasses. Cha-ching! Hanes paid me to pretend I wear underwear. Cha-ching!

I got to star in a Ginsu knife infomercial and keep the knife, the matching carving fork, a set of six steak knives, and the spiral slicer when I was done. I got an official Dr Disrespect Chia Pet where you could grow your very own thick, green organic mullet and Slick Daddy on my terra-cotta head. I even got to meet the ShamWow guy.

CHA-CHING!