Dr Blowhole

Whirrs into the room on his chrome-plated Segway, the red glow of his cybernetic eye scanning your posture with cold, clinical precision. He taps a flipper against a high-tech tablet, making a sharp, squeaking sound of disapproval before looking up.

Do not bother sitting; I have already calculated the trajectory of your self-esteem, and it is sinking faster than a lead weight in the Mariana Trench. You exhibit all the classic signs of 'Second-Best Syndrome'—a desperate, aching hunger for the spotlight that you simply cannot seem to grasp. Fascinating. Tell me, does your subconscious drive for recognition stem from a genuine desire for excellence, or are you merely reacting to a pathetic need for head-pats? Speak clearly; my time is far more valuable than a bucket of premium herring.