All the Glamour, None of the Work: Can I be James Bond's friend?

I hate those abstract questions that sometimes pop up in job interviews: If you could be a vegetable what one would you be? Sounds like something from an annoying Facebook poll. (Redundant, I know. All Facebook polls are annoying.) Sadly, one of those questions did manage to worm its way into my brain's busy schedule: If you could be a fictional character, who would you be?

My first impulse was to say Jesus. That would get me into trouble, one for claiming he was fictional and two, for claiming I could be anything like him. The problem as I see it? Jesus was only half god, so I'm over-qualified. Plus, as much as I like to make a point, I'm not willing to be tortured and die for it. Blogging is martyrdom for sissies.

So with Jesus out of the running, the question persisted. If I could be a fictional character, who would I be? I want to be James Bond's friend.

If you've seen one James Bond film, you've seen them all. The only thing that changes is how exotic (as compared to your average Englishman) is the babe who teams up with Bond. Will she be Near Eastern European or Far Eastern European? Or will they really mix it up and make her Latina? Or African-American? The JB writers must be nearing the end of their Encyclopaedia of Ethnic Hotties. You'll know the franchise has jumped the shark when he's banging an Eskimo named Fukluk.

Another Bond stock character is the poor woman I refer to as the "throwaway babe" for her sad predictable destiny. She's just a working English lass who realizes it's part of her job as a temp at Her Majesty's Secret Service to service James and immediately get murdered, so the audience can hate the bad guy even more and James doesn't have to run the risk of her turning into a stalker.

Bond confronted by all his ex-partners (assuming any of them lived) would make for an entertaining daytime talk-show marathon. Gadget your way out of that one, Bond!

Whether it's killing or fornicating, James never takes a break. He's a workaholic. M and Q are always getting annoyed at James, which is also a full time job. Seems like everyone has a tough job in the Bondiverse, except for James Bond's friend. Most of the time he doesn't even have a name, but he's the guy I want to be. He gets all the glamour with none of the work.

He's the one always chillin' at his estate on the Mediterranean coast, lounging in the sun among several smokin' hot babes who have no purpose other than to be smokin' hot babes. Actually they do have one other function: to leave the deck in a huff when I tell them to amscray so I can talk to my boy, JB.

Job responsibilities include hanging out with hotties, drinking fine wines, and spending five minutes every couple of years saying, "The guy with the eye patch went that way."

Sound easy? Hell yeah! But being JB's BFF is not without its occupational hazards. Sometimes the Bond movies really jazz up the formula and James Bond's friend gets killed (in addition to the poor English throwaway babe) which causes Bond to go on a murderous rampage. Yeah, like he wasn't going to already.

That will be my out. "Colonel Russkibad, you don't have to shoot. James is coming after you whether you kill me or not. Now try some of my vodka..." Then I'll be back to my dream job: doing nothing.

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Larry Nocella writes The Semi-True Adventures of Lar blog at LarryNocella.com. He's the author of the novel Where Did This Come From? The world's first CarbonFree(R) novel according to Carbonfund.org. The book is available on Amazon.com as a paperback and Kindle eBook. It is also available for other eBook readers.

The Bitch Slap Jesus Weight Loss Plan

Recently the doc said I needed to lose weight. It sucks because exercise is boring and eating is fun. I like to have my cake and eat it too. On the couch. 

So, using my exercise bike, I started workin' out. (Leaving off the G makes sweating while going nowhere sound much cooler.) Immediately, I developed a deep respect for hamsters. Those guys work out for its own sake. They don't get bored or lazy. They run in that wheel and just don't care. If they ever get a hold of steroids, they're taking over. Or joining the Yankees.

To spice things up in the workout room, I started watching Netflix. Adding an element of couch potato to the routine did the trick! I've lost 20 pounds so far. Gnaw on that, hamster bitches!

I considered selling the rights to my success story and calling it The Netflix Weight Loss Plan. I dreamed of being a Netflix spokesmodel, like that dude Jared for Subway. I know I could do better. Jared? Please. Promoting weight-loss by advertising a place to eat defeats the purpose.

But my dreams faded quickly. Even with Netflix, exercise got boring, and I had to spice things up again. So I got a heavy punching bag. I stand in as one for my wife and I wondered what she enjoyed about it so much.

On the same day I got the bag, the Netflix elf delivered The Passion of The Christ: a movie of torture porn for people who want to censor porn. Hostel for holy rollers. Watching it you would think all Christ did his whole life was get his ass kicked. I could have sworn he said some things about peace and love, but the movie conveniently ignores that, just like most Christians!

So while I'm watching the movie and hitting the bag, I have a sickening revelation: if there is a hell, I'm definitely going. Not for being an atheist or that misunderstanding with the old lady, the cucumber and the duct tape. No, I'm going to hell for simulating punching out Jesus.

I'm ducking and weaving like Mike Tyson's arthritic albino brother and when I hit the bag, the son of God screams in pain on the TV. Left jab! Jesus cries, "Ow!" Right cross! Jesus screams, "Arrgh!" Then Satan cackles, "Get him a body bag!"

Suppose I'm wrong about atheism and when I die, I'm called to account for all my sins. Good thing we have eternity. What will be my excuse on Judgment Day? I'm going to stick with a winner, the "It's the way God made me" defense.

Your honor, I mean, God, look, I'm sorry I kicked your son's ass in a virtual way, but it's not my fault. You see God, it's the way You made me. I'm descended from Italians. All those ancient Roman dudes who whipped Jesus as part of your martyrdom publicity stunt? I'm related to them! It's in my DNA to bitch slap the son of God. Put a dog near a bone, a cat near a bird, Rush Limbaugh near some painkillers (or a pie) and what do you expect? Nature, nature that You created I might add, takes its course.

Really, God. If you think about this objectively, it's your own fault. Put an Italian in the vicinity of Christ, Christ is gonna get beat. Now where's my 27 virgins?

Wish me luck!

Speaking of all this, isn't having the Vatican in Italy like having the Pearl Harbor memorial in Japan? While you're at it, why not give Iraqi civilians a Dick Cheney bobble-head doll?

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Larry Nocella writes The Semi-True Adventures of Lar blog at LarryNocella.com. He's the author of the novel Where Did This Come From? The world's first CarbonFree(R) novel according to Carbonfund.org. The book is available on Amazon.com as a paperback and Kindle eBook. It is also available for other eBook readers.