Dr. Evil Gets on the Couch
June 12, 2006 1 Comment
(INT. THERAPIST’S OFFICE)
We’re in the middle of a group therapy session, containing
six or seven FATHERS with their teenage SONS. It is
emotionally charged. A lot of pained expressions and coffee
in Styrofoam cups.
I love you, Dad.
I love you, Son.
(They hug. Everyone APPLAUDS. We see Dr. Evil and Scott.)
That was great, Mr. Keon, Dave.
Thank you. OK, group, we have two
new member. Say hello to Scott and
his father, Mr….Ehville?
Evil, actually, Doctor Evil.
Hello, Dr. Evil. Hello, Scott.
So, Scott, why don’t we start with
you. Why are you here?
Well, it’s kind of weird.
We don’t judge here.
OK. Well, I just really met my Dad
for the first time three days ago.
He was partially frozen for thirty
years. I never knew him growing up.
He comes back and now he wants me to
take over the family business.
And how do you feel about that?
I don’t wanna take over the family
But Scott, who’s going to take over
the world when I die?
What do you want to do, Scott?
I don’t know. I was thinking, maybe
I’d be a vet or something, cause I
like animals and stuff.
An evil vet?
No. Maybe, like, work in a petting
zoo or something.
An evil petting zoo?
You always do that!
Anyways, this is really hard, because,
you know, my Dad is really evil.
We don’t label people here, Scott.
No, he’s really evil.
No, the boy’s right. I really am
Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re
here, that’s what’s important. A
journey of a thousand miles begins
with one step.
I just think, like, he hates me. I
really think he wants to kill me.
OK, Scott, no one really wants to
“kill” anyone here. They say it,
but they don’t mean it.
(The group LAUGHS.)
Actually, the boy’s quite astute. I
am trying to kill him. My Evil
Associates have cautioned against
it, so here he is, unfortunately,
We’ve heard from Scott, now let’s
hear from you.
The details of my life are quite
That’s not true, Doctor. Please,
tell us about your childhood.
Yes, of course. Go ahead, etc.
Very well, where should 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. A 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. If 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 fifteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically
shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shawn
scrotum. At the age of eighteen, I went off to evil medical
school. From there…
(ANGLE ON THE THERAPIST AND THE GROUP. They are stunned.)