You Sir, Are No James Bond
The newest James Bond film GoldenEye, starring Pierce Brosnan, is about to be released, providing yet another opportunity for those of us who grew up with Bond movies to indulge in our 007 fantasies. Unfortunately, as I get older and more painfully aware of my limitations, my illusions are somewhat tempered when it comes to Bond-like scenarios. For example, if I got into a fight with one of the arch villain Blofeld's henchmen, one punch in the face and I'd go down crying. I might try to grab my opponent's ankle and pull him down, but that's about it. If there were more than one guy, I'd be finished. When I was younger I believed I could take care of four or five guys at once, but now I feel my best fighting strategy is curling up into a ball, sobbing and threatening lawsuits. I don't think that's very intimidating to SPECTRE agents. Physically, I just don't have it. I can lift heavy things all right, carry boxes around and such, but one blow from Jaws and that'd be it for me. Straight to the morgue for old Jimmy B! I could be shot, strangled, decapitated, drowned, eaten by piranha, have my crotch laser beamed, all that -- no problem. And I'd go quietly. Say I walk into Blofeld's lair, the control center from which he's planning to melt the polar ice caps with nuclear explosions so as to submerge North America. He's got his white cat on his lap. Blofeld: So good to see you again, Mr. Bond. But I'm afraid to say you've become quite a nuisance to us. Indoors Bond: Hey, how ya doin'! Is that your cat? I love cats! What's her name? I .... (I'm shot instantly as I approach.) When I was a kid I dreamed of driving an Aston Martin, 007's ride, with its machine guns, ejector seat, bulletproof shield, and quadruple cams or whatever it was that made it go 160 mph. But it turns out I don't like driving very much, and even if I were forced to, would probably go with our Nissan Sentra. My wife Barbara and I use the Sentra to drive to our friend Marc's and the market and places like that. However, the Sentra's got no pick-up and is slower than molasses, and could easily be caught and magnetized by a SPECTRE helicopter. And again, I'd be finished. I really don't have James Bond's savoir faire, either. Of course, Bond's drink is a vodka martini, "shaken, not stirred." I can drink martinis, too, but I ain't cool like Bond when I'm on them. I tend to get sentimental, thinking about favorite sports heroes, or my elementary school days. Or I get angry about imagined slights. Indoors Bond: Is that bartender ignoring me? Hey! Hey! What's he doing over there? I GUESS HE'S TOO BUSY TALKING TO HIS FRIENDS OVER THERE TO DO HIS JOB. Pussy Galore: Keep your voice down, for God's sake. Not that I'm always belligerent on drinks. Sometimes I imitate cartoon characters ("I don't think the Ranger's gonna like that, Yogi" or "I'll do the thinnin' around here, Baba Looey"), but that's not very 007-like, either. I've never seen James Bond talk like Huckleberry Hound in any of his movies. He's too busy swapping double entendres with his women co-stars. I, personally, can't think that fast. Tiffany Case: My goodness, James, your pistol is so thick and hard. I'll bet it's very powerful. Indoors Bond: Yeah, but it's noisy. It makes me jump when it goes off. Tiffany Case: James, would you light my cigar? I love big, long things that give me pleasure. Indoors Bond: I'm sorry, I think I left my Bic lighter on top of my toilet. Maybe I can find a book of matches in somebody's pocket somewhere. Tiffany Case: Let's just go to your room, James. If we can't find your lighter maybe we can find ... something else ... long and hard ... to satisfy me. Indoors Bond: What do you mean, like beef sticks? I get charged for any missing food out of that room refrigerator, you know. That stuff's not free, okay? If you're willing to reimburse me I'd -- Tiffany Case: We'll just skip it, pantload.