Being a Bond Girl

As my birthday comes and passes, I find myself returning home from a business trip – maybe going to celebrate my birthday on the weekend – to a germ fest in full swing. His name is Bill. He’s sick…he’s pathetic…and he never goes to the doctor. He coughs without covering his mouth – spewing big, aggressive germs out into the vicinity – which will eventually make their way into my system…and jack up my world. I take off my shoes, to sit in the chair…glad to not be traveling…glad to be home. And, it happens. Bill works up a loogie of massive proportion – loud, deep and proud – and ceremoniously deposits it into an empty Kleenex box – to an audience of one. Me.

This triggers a responsive ever-present gag reflex – from allergies, time zones and temperature changes – which starts a massive coughing and gagging spasm – deepens continually – working to the physical crescendo of my running out of the room to lose my lunch, and possibly 3 tiny bags of airline honey roasted peanuts. I digress.

Violent retching – because every time I start to stop…I can hear the Performance Loogie – and it triggers more of the same. This triggers more coughing spasms – which end only after mentally wiping out the sound and reality of the loogie. Anyway…moving on.

Bill is completely unaffected by my plight. He is busy feeling all yucky, running a temperature – and is surviving his germs by self-soothing himself – lording over one of three remotes. It’s inevitable. It’s the beginning of the weekend…and it’s cable. He lands on a James Bond movie.

“Select”

As my heart rate and blood pressure are returning to normal – and I’m assessing whether the violent coughing spasms have rendered a cracked rib…there it is…James Bond having sex. Always. And, of course, she dies shortly thereafter. Whether they cover her in gold and suffocate her – or they shoot, drown, stab, choke, drip poison down a string into her mouth…no matter the mode of delivery – if you sleep with James Bond, you are going to die.

Except the woman in the last scene, as she is always alive and having sex with Bond…James Bond… much to the dismay of that psycho Moneypenny. Whether you are floating in the ocean in a space shuttle, in a Tiki hut somewhere laying on a bed of diamonds – you will die. It’s coming, you just don’t see it yet because you are an actress and you are busy faking orgasms. You’ll probably get hit by a speeding train or get shot after the movie wraps. We’ll never know. Or, you’ll probably die of an STD you didn’t count on when you slept with one of the Bonds during filming. Which I’m sure was all namby pamby on set both during and after shooting was wrapped each day. “Namby Pamby!!!” I want to shout out and warn you. “They are just letting you live until they say…’And…..SCENE!’ Check the small print.

Moneypenny – if she were real – would probably go down as the most passive aggressive, Bond sex partner serial killers in the history of man. In the older Bonds, she was just kinda creeping on James and his sexual antics. The secretary secretly in love – who probably kept a locked deep freezer full of crime scene evidence which will only be discovered by her great grandchildren upon her death. The new Moneypenny shot him, and then shaved him with a straight edged razor – in a creepy awkward – I’m going to sleep with you but not jump down in the komodo dragon pit. Bottom line…

Don’t sleep with James!!!!!!”

These are the things I’m thinking, as Bill is sitting there watching any Bond film for the gazillionth time…happy as a clam. So, I just have to make my remarks – now that the quick check shows no cracked ribs – just torn muscles around my chest and back. We’re okay.

“OHHHHHH, James. I just met you for 5 seconds…but because you’re Sean Connery, I’m going to let you use that mink massage glove which I’m sure is standard issue to give me a “may-sage” – and then, you can leave me on the trash heap of love and it was all worth it – because you are amazing. I’m ready to die! Can we just get to the next scene before I come down from my orgasm? You’re the best I’ve ever had…I can die now knowing that for one brief moment in time…James Bond loved me up – flirted information from me – and did it all without messing up my makeup and hair.”

Cue up me singing…”Nobody Does it Better” and he just looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. Bill is not impressed with my singing. I get a pretty sour look from sickie over in his arm chair. Makes me feel bad, for just a moment.

Men just love James Bond movies.  After all…

  • James Bond drives cool cars that blow shit up
  • James Bond has all the latest and greatest from Q – pens, belt buckles, shoes, watches – which again…blows shit up
  • James Bond is always doing stuff – he is a specimen. He scuba dives, hang glides, water skis, snow skis, wake boards, snow boards, flies planes, speed boats, yachts, flies space ships…jumps off shit, climbs up shit, blows up shit…shoots guns, rifles and spear guns. He has a suit under his suit. Like Batman. Or Superman. And, it is always perfectly tailored to the times
  • James Bond has – from what I understand from the story lines – great sex…with some of the most gorgeous women on the planet. From the scene sequencing – his “recovery” time is instantaneous – and he miraculously can have sex whenever and with whomever he wants. He can even not have sex – but the promise of sex – will get them killed. That’s some powerful mojo. Which means…James Bond doesn’t have to worry about calling the next day. Not really. He can have sex, they die, and then…conveniently…they stop talking. And, then he can have sex again in the next scene.

I call out all of this to Bill…as he sits there watching Bond have sex…again. I bet he wishes I’d stop talking. Well, my talking doesn’t change anything. She dies. Anyway, I digress. Back to the observations of a middle-aged birthday girl.

How does a woman lay on a bed of diamonds and have sex?  “Hey, I want to lay on a bed of cut diamonds – THOUSANDS OF THEM! – butt ass naked, and have sex with James Bond du jour. That’s what all women dream of. Forget the obvious pain and subsequent surgical procedures. Come on James – leave the diamonds in my belly button. Obamacare sucks.”

I want Domino’s wardrobe in Thunderball. Especially her cool bikini and one piece collection, with coordinating wraps. She had the coolest clothes of them all – and we have the same coloring – even though her “guardian” was creepy as all get out – killed her brother, let strange men take her to dinner, and fed people to sharks in his pool. As “guardians” go – he left much to be desired. Domino needs girlfriends to tell her to take the money, wardrobe – and trade up. And, by trade up – not James Bond. He had you take that giger-signaling fake camera on board the yacht – which almost got you tortured and killed. Just sayin’. He’s not a keeper either

Denise Richards isn’t a nuclear scientist, nor does she know Russian. Painful to watch. That’s all I’m going to say about that.

Monica Ballucci in Spectre made a gorgeous, middle aged widow of an evil assassin. I was awed by the fact that she followed her husband’s funeral procession at that big masoleum thing in what could only have been 6 inch stilettos. She didn’t teeter one bit. Seeing that she was probably a model in her past – I get it. It’s like watching Melania Trump walk like the supermodel she is and always will be. Amazing to see a first lady not clog around – uncomfortable in fashion and with bad shoes. Melania can dress. Anyway…Monica rocks the corset – and obviously thought of her hair – even knowing that the bad guys were going to assassinate her. Style first. My biggest disappointment…did she ever call Felix and get the freak out of Italy? We’ll never know. But, I bet she died.

I didn’t like the chick who played whomever – again…died – in a cage, drowning in shame as she had seemingly betrayed James Bond. She’d rather die and not let him break through the cage and get her some air. Someone should have fed her a cracker, or a sandwich, or maybe a big burrito or something. That girl was too skinny and needed to eat something. Maybe if she had – her brain would have functioned long enough – and she could have shimmied through the cage bars to her freedom. But, no…James Bond gets her out of the cage – after she dies. It was just annoying as Hell. Anyway, that chick went on to star in “Penny Dreadful” You know – my Mom loved “Penny Dreadful”. We found it kinda gory and extremely sexual. Stopped watching. My Mom has dimensions I’ve yet to understand. Hopefully, I never will.

Hello, my name is…

Pussy Galore and I run an assassin network of performers called…Octopussy

Plenty O’Toole

Holly Goodhead

Xenia Onatopp

Kissy Suzuki

Honey Ryder

Mary Goodnight

Jinx

Cherry Bengone

And Jane Seymour as Solitaire. She was all of 25 years old in the movie. Losing her sight – getting smacked around by that crazy guy wearing the worst fake identity mask ever – you’re gonna die…all because James Bond switched the cards and tricked her out of her virginity. And, she says…now, I’m no longer a virgin, I can’t see. He’s like all…”Oh, hey…sorry. Um. I’ll just put you in more danger, baby…and then, dump you later – after I get away from the alligator farm by jumping on the backs of alligators to get out of the middle of the swamp.” In a suit.

Anyway, in the real world…James Bond would have been shot, stabbed or died from a lingering STD from that red headed chick in chiffon who showed up in his bathtub and then tried to kill him. His penis would be quarantined on a global level – and he’d be on the post office wall as – “Ladies, don’t go there.” And, I’m sure that Pussy Galore – who was a converted lesbian in the book – because he was the only man she had ever wanted…would have shot him way before he shut down that bomb that was going to blow up the Octopussy circus.

Jinx would have said…”No way, José – you lay your ass and back on the bed of razor sharp, glass cutting diamonds – or better yet…just give me the diamonds before I shoot you.” At least in Texas she would – as she would be packing. And by the way, where was Jinx’s spy stuff – she was always running around in a “Help me, Help me!” way – she couldn’t get her own self out of that Ice Hotel and not drown until James saved her? Why didn’t she save herself like on the island in Cuba? I have a lot of questions.

I look over…my questions and observations – all of my research on my iPhone during the movie – all of my brilliance have prompted the following response…

“——–(insert loud snoring)————” Head back, mouth open, boom snoring, but the remote is secure in his bear claws.

Well, snoring is better than a loogie. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen James Bond hack a loogie.  Something to save for Bill to point out when he wakes himself up with his own snoring – or when I am able to remove and disinfect the remote so I can change it to watch Chopped.

I’m not sure if I’m kicking off the best year ever…or wrapping up the old one. Even after navigating the germs and allergies of traveling all week with hand gel, germ wipe downs of everything, and vitamin C packs – I’ll probably catch the millions of germs floating in the living room. At least I’m not a Bond Girl – and I’ll “Live to Die Another Day.”

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