They didn’t quite hear me, but they may have understood some of my International Sign language.

That’s right.  My hair-tossing and reasonable facsimile of the Kid N’ Play dance meant please do this:

What’s that?  I’m a nuclear physicist and you need to record my voice to bypass security a break into a missle silo?

You’d better hope the passcode is a bunch of four-letter words and gasping.

Of course, an agent always gets his girl.  And his girl ends up dead, covered in gold and rolled in a hammock in Antigua.

Eh, probably worth it.

There was never a shortage of Bond girls or bad jokes.  Get it – Bauer VAPOR?  Because these were all shot with the humidifier set to stun?  And all my powder compacts are really remote detonators and lock picking sets.

Better hurry up, the shiny villain-type is coming.

Then the money(penny) shot.   They’re thinking: JAMES BOND.

I’m thinking: BOYBAND.

Worked Westlife into a post, complete with Bry(i)an.  Maybe I am a physicist.

Closer, Bauer.  You’re getting closer.  No pressure, but when other athletes model… well, I’m not even sure what they’re selling, but I’ll buy it.

Maybe that’s what happens on 4.18 when…