Hallo? Is this Giganta? Giganta Crotchetta?Поделиться ссылкой на эту страницу в любимой соцсети:
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Oh, grand! It's Bond.
James Bond? O07?
Shaken not stirred? Tuxedo? The trunk-sized jet pack? We had a run in with an Austrian terrorist with the overdeveloped reptilian brain and a predilection for man-eating octopi launching bazookas?
Well, contacting you took quite a bit of doing actually. You see, first I tried Giganta Crotchetta. I must have looked in every phone directory that MI-6 could hack into. Then I figured out that Giganta might be a code name. I mean, who has the name Giganta Crotchetta? Rather silly, when you think about it?
Yes, yes I suppose you do like it. Anyway, I recalled that I kept one of your garments - your knickers actually. And there it was. "Honey Rider" is a much prettier and commonplace name. You should use that.
Ah, yes. The, uh... point. Well, it seems that... well, there's no delicate way to put this. I have a rather nasty case of syphilis. And, um, I'm calling all my sexual partners to let them know that they should go get tested.
Uh-huh. Right. I know it was ten years ago. But the syphilis is rather unusual.
Well, it has gonorrhea.
Yes, my syphilis has gonorrhea.
And the gonorrhea has lice. And the lice have some undiscovered disease that's kind of between hemorrhagic fever and the mumps. It's a virulent mutant strand developed by Dr. No-Means-Yes during Mission: "The Russian Spy Who Loved To Thunderball Me."
Yes, I know I said I had a condom. But you see all the condoms I had were made by Q, and apparently, the condoms weren't meant to be condoms -- they were designed to be used as a pocket parachute. Good man. If you need to have your stapler work as a gun, he's your boy. Anyway, you didn't notice because while we were passionately embraced, your tongue accidentally trigged my knockout gas tooth and you, um, drifted off to sleep. But trust me, you enjoyed yourself. They all do.
Anyway, with all the rather bizarre ailments my, um, bizarre ailments have, the doctors have advised me to contact everyone in my sexual history about my condition. No small feat, I assure you. If you saw the list, you'd think I'd been having sex with my fellow spies for 50 years!
Well, this is what the doctors suggest. Right now, I am in a remote island facility. Actually there's no facility. Just an island. And me. But they'e building one as soon as they can find enough hazmat suits. Anyway, a helicopter is going to pick you up and bring you to the island where we can be treated in isolation.
Chin up! Look at it this way: it'll give us a chance to get caught up. And maybe once some of the redness goes down, along with some of the greenness and the larvae, we can do some REAL reminiscing.
"Oh, James." What's that supposed to mean?