James? Ah, James Bond, good to meet you. Have a seat, please.
James, I don’t fuck around. Which is more than I can say for you. Er, we’ll get to that right off, I suppose.
James, while I respect that your duties are often very harrowing and life-threatening, I think we need to have a small discussion about your priorities, specifically while you’re on the clock. We just came out of a recession, and while that’s a great thing, people are still eagle-eyed when it comes to their tax dollars. And I can’t help but notice that it seems you’re blowing a great deal of Great Britain’s tax dollars right out of your urethra.
How am I supposed to explain this to the people, James? Sex on a beach. In a weird steam room (and I”m not even sure why you’re in the steam room in the first place). In a rescue capsule. James, I’m not going to ask whether you had sex on that moon base thing. I’m just going to assume that you, again, on the peoples’ dime, are the first person to copulate in space.
Let me stand and applaud you. Well done. Now, that’s out of the way. We’re bros. And now I’m going to tell you that sexy time is over.
James, you might be the best at fucking ever. But sadly, we haven’t hired you to fuck. We hired you to kick ass. Now, I understand you might become embroiled in the occasional romance in order to get close to someone while undercover. But every time, James? Really?
In order to facilitate your new role as government employee who doesn’t just fuck all the time, which has actually been your role this whole time, I had Q branch make this up for you. It’s a porno magazine. Jack off in the helicopter on your way to the mission, please. Get it out of your system, literally. And get to fucking work.