Therapist: Okay, well... we've heard from you, Scott. Now, uh, you tell us a little about yourself.
Dr. Evil: The details of my life are quite inconsequential...
Therapist: Oh, no, please. Please, let-let's hear about your childhood.
The Group: Yeah! C'mon, Doctor! C'mon.
Dr. Evil: Very well. Where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low-grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen-year-old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims, like he "invented" the question mark. Sometimes, he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy... the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess, and the insane lament. My childhood was typical: summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring, we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent, I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds; pretty standard, really. At the age of twelve, I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles... there really is nothing like a shorn scrotum. It's breathtaking; I suggest you try it.
[the rest of the therapy group is baffled and disturbed by Dr. Evil's recollections]
Therapist: You know, we have to stop.
