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Oi, mate, it’s Bond—James Bond. Suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, sexual-massage, yeah? Bloody brilliant stuff. Picture this: dim lights, oil slicker than my Aston Martin, hands sliding like they’re dodging bullets. Reminds me of *The Assassination of Jesse James*—y’know, my fave flick. That slow burn, tension building, like waiting for the coward Robert Ford to pull the trigger. “Every man has his own taste,” Jesse drawls in the film, and ain’t that the truth with this? Some like it rough, some soft—me, I’m all about that smooth finesse.

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Suddenly, the cat darts into the street, and I’m like, “Noooo!” I sprint after them, heart racing. I’m dodging pedestrians, and I swear, I almost knocked over an old lady. Sorry, lady! But I saved the cat! Kid’s all smiles, and I’m feelin’ like a hero.

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