Violence. Speed. Momentum., Dr DisRespect [motivational books for students TXT] 📗

baby out of my holster—of course I’ve got a holster—and I flip it open in one smooth motion. There’s no fiddling with the password, no finicky fingerprint recognition, and there damn well ain’t no fumbles or drops. Just one cool, well-oiled, slick—

FLIP!

And that baby is open for business. Check the caller ID real quick—I mean, my number is unlisted, obviously, but with fans as dedicated, as obsessed, and, between me and you, as straight-up crazy AF as mine, well, you just never know.

Then I lean back, bring that bad boy up to my ear, and the magic begins. Maybe I’m closing a $10 million deal. Maybe I’m insulting one of my countless mortal enemies. Maybe I’m yelling at Razor Frank to remember to do my laundry back at the Top Secret Command Center—always separate blacks from darker blacks, Razor Frank!I Maybe it’s just a robocall from Zimbabwe, but I’m playing it cool and talking anyway so no one knows I got punked.

Whatever it is, I look great doing it. I got that slim, aerodynamic baby nestled snug against my ear. Its slightly rounded edges contrast perfectly with my impressively square jaw. Its glossy black casing glints in the sun—or in the klieg lights of whatever exclusive red-carpet event I’m attending—and beautifully brings out the subtle shades of even darker, glossier black in my hair. As I move my supple, pouty, yet extraordinarily masculine lips, Slick Daddy dances and prances beneath my warrior’s nose, and there’s no clunky smartphone to detract from my flared nostrils, stunningly cubic chin, sheer splendor, or soul-stealing dominance.

My good looks get some breathing room—they can stop “doing” and simply be.

What’s that saying? “If a flip phone rings in a forest and there’s no one there to answer it, am I still a handsome bastard?” I’m no Zen expert, but that sounds about right.

And it goes without saying—but it bears repeating—that because I look great, I feel great. I mean, I always feel great, because I’m so successful. But I feel better than great. I feel bloodthirsty-killer great.

I’m looking good, I’m feeling good, and maybe, just maybe, I close that previously $10 million deal at $100 million. Maybe instead of an awesome witty comeback for my mortal enemy, I come up with a mortal witty comeback for my awesome enemy. Maybe I yell at Razor Frank to do both the laundry and the dishes. Maybe I’m extra charming on the robocall from Zimbabwe, and I make a brand-new robotic Zimbabwean friend. Hell, maybe we decide to grab a couple beers later that night.

And I’ll be honest—sometimes using my flip phone is fun just because it pisses off the smartphone users so much.

“Okay, Doc, so I’ll text you later.”

“Yeah, sorry, man, have you tried texting on a flip phone? Not cool.”

“Fine, then I’ll send you a link to—”

“Hahahaha. A link? Have you tried using the internet on a flip phone?”

“No, but—”

“Like, I think this dot-matrix globe pops up on the little screen with the words ‘World Wide Web’ beneath it, and the globe kinda spins around for ten minutes, and it’s not even smooth, it’s really choppy, and then it stops, and it just says ‘Error.’ It’s fucking hysterical.”

“So you’re saying…”

“Yep.”

“I actually have to…”

“That’s right.”

“Talk? On the phone? With words?”

“Wow. You finally put it together.”

“But I never do that! Not even with my parents!”

“I’m not your fucking parents. The name-ame-ame is Doctor-octor-octor Disrespect-ect-ect-ect.”

“Why are you making that funny echo noise with your mouth?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

So. If having the right flip phone is so critical on so many levels—technical, cosmetic, martial, philosophical—how do you choose the right one for you?

Damned if I know. I mean, seriously—I don’t know you. I don’t know what your face looks like, what your values are, what your income is, how much of a warrior you may or may not be. How the hell should I know the right flip phone for you? I’m not a psychic.

But I do know the right flip phones for me. Maybe that’ll help you out, or maybe it won’t—not my problem.

Motorola

As far as the Doctor is concerned, Motorolas are the crème de la crème of flip phones, to borrow from the Swahili. English can’t capture how exceptional they are.

Who can forget the iconic Razr? No one with a combat knife in an ankle sheath, that’s who.

And if you’re like, “But, Doc, I’m only twelve years old, I wasn’t even born when the Razor was around,” then look it up, punk! Oh yeah, and when you Google—it’s “Razr,” no “O.” No vowel at all between the “Z” and the “R.” I have no idea why, but for some reason that makes the phone a ton cooler, all right? It’s like someone took a razor to the word “razor,” the ultimate conclusion of Occam’s razr.

Once you do just a minimum of research you’ll see just what made the Razr so damn unforgettable. Thin. Sleek. Shiny. Sharp.

I look at it and think, “Careful, Doc, you could cut yourself on that baby, it’s so fucking sharp.” Probably because I actually have cut myself on my Razr before, which might have to do with how surprisingly sensitive my perfect skin is.

Whatever it is, it’s awesome, and it’s Doc’s choice of flip phone for when he’s stepping out on the town and wants to make a call—and a great impression on the hundreds of paparazzi who follow him everywhere he goes.

Oh, and the keypad looks like something out of Tron. The original, badass Tron, not the bullshit sequel. So yeah, cool keypad too.

The Razr was, as everyone knows, followed by the Krzr. The Krzr was longer, narrower, and had exactly zero vowels. But honestly, it wasn’t quite as cool as the Razr. Just trying a little too hard, you know?

Don’t get me wrong, I still own seven Krzrs. I mean, I’m rich—so why not? And they’re still pretty cool, just not as cool as the Razr. I own thirty of those. Each one is a different shade of black.

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