Posted 2:19 PM by Alfred

Back in the saddle after a nice long 4 day weekend. Kudos to, um, the contingent’s legal team.

Ian Fleming (creator of James Bond) had a fascinating fucking life. Did you know Winston Churchill wrote his father’s obituary? And you thought Baby was a Big Tymer.

But I shouldn’t go into his dad’s or older bro’s escapades. Good ol’ Ian was in their shadow for years before he busted pop culture’s cherry like a fukn jackhammer with mr. double-oh siete.

And you know what’s a goddamm fucking shame? An example of the pathetic state of this nation & the world? Here we’ve got james bond, arguably the most popular character in the free world, (hey, 20 fucking plus movies & counting), yet you can’t find an Ian Fleming book at fucking Waldenbooks. Or Borders. Look. Try. I had to scour through a used bookstore by the University to get my copy of her majesty’s service, and it’s an original paperback copy from 1964. which makes me extremely happy because of the old skool factor and feeling the vibes of the hopefully thousands of people that read it and hopefully will read it after me if I ever release it from my clutches, but c’mon, people, this is good shit. are you telling me, corporate fuckbags out there, yeah you, that you’ve got room on the shelves for Doctors Phil & Laura, both of which can go take a flying shit and then bathe themselves in it and drop off the face of the fucking planet for all I care, talking story about how to lose weight & hold on to (or to use her vernacular, “train” like I’m a fucking dog. BITCH) husbands, but you can’t stock the OG shit of which is based the most successful movie franchise in the world? Check the fucking files people. shit!

I got a lot of stuff to do, so I’m gonna let this percolate. But it ain’t over motherfuckers. Frammalamma.

Oh & if you think Fleming is just some action novel shit and any fukn rhesus crew could write that shit by throwing a gun & a couple of titties in a blender & pressing a couple buttons, peep this line from On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. I dare say I’ve never heard a better description of a guy contemplating how he’s gonna get drunk:

“Encouraged by the prospect of this cosy self-anaesthesia, Bond brusquely kicked his problems under the carpet of his consciousness.”

Plus I’m secretly Blofeld. Shhh.

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