Recently, I went to see Skyfall, the latest James Bond film, and after I had left the movie, I had an epiphany: Becca is a secret agent. So I rushed home and wrote a script for her upcoming movie:
Act 1: Assignment from M (who’s a man, like in the old days):
M: Good morning 00-oh. Nice work taking down Goldthingy.
Becca: Whatever. Those douchebags put a bullet hole in my Swagger Wagon. You’re going to fix that, right?
M: Of course. Here, have a drink.
Becca: Blech! What is this? Don’t you have any Southern Comfort around here?
M: Well, I . . . (he’s cut off by Becca’s phone ringing).
Becca: Hold on. Hello? Jason? Where’s my freakin’ post?! No, I said to take that out! It was supposed to be done two hours ago. I’m telling you , my readers will totally get the part about the goat and the truck tire. Just put that in and post it already! Okay, bye.
M: Why don’t you try a sip of this?
Becca: Don’t even think about trying to get me drunk, M. I know you want to tap this, but you wouldn’t know what to do with it even if you had the chance (bends over to get something out of her purse, giving M a shot of her ample cleavage).
M: Ah . . . I think I need a drink.
Becca: (pulls a lollipop out of her purse and begins seductively sucking on it) Why do they call you M? Hmmmmm? Mmmm. Mmmmmmmmm.
M: Please stop that, 00-oh.
M: Good God! Can’t you see that you’re driving me insane with desire! I’ll do anything to have you! I can get you in to see the Queen. Would you like that?
Becca: Thanks, but I don’t have time to deal with subordinates today. What’s my next assignment, you perv.
M: (sigh) Well, a new terrorist organization has sprung up, called Al Cutya. It’s headed by a man named Jacques D’Gooberville, a very dangerous customer, and an evil genius besides. He books his operatives on international flights, and then they occupy the bathrooms the entire time so that no one can relieve themselves. The passengers force the pilots to land the plane so they can go pee.
The new face of Terror
Becca: Bwahahahaha! That’s funny.
M: I do wish you’d take your job more seriously, 00-oh. Ah, here’s Q with his latest gadget.
Becca: Whoa! Where’d you find this guy, the nursery? Honey, are you even eighteen?
Q: I’m eighteen and a half.
Becca: I’ve got bras older than you.
Q: (cough) Um . . . here’s your latest sidearm. It looks like a standard-issue Walther . . .
Becca: Stop right there! Didn’t they tell you anything? I don’t do guns. How about nuclear-powered sex toys. You got any of those?
Q: I’m experiencing vascular tumescence.
Becca: Yeah, that happens. Sorry. Hey what’s that in your shirt pocket? Can I have one of those?
Q: It’s an iPhone29. I built a time machine and went into the future to get it. They won’t even be invented for another four years.
Becca: Can I have it?
Q: Uh . . . sure.
M: I say, Q, are you trying to cockblock me?
Act 2: Tracking down vital clues:
Hubby: What’s that?
Becca: It’s an iPhone29. Guess who’s running for President in 2016?
Hubby: George Clooney and Donald Trump.
Becca: Wow! You are so smart! Who needs an iPhone with you around.
Hubby: You, evidently.
Becca: Awwww. It was a gift. How could I say no? Honey, could you do me a favor?
Hubby: Of course, my dangerously beautiful wife.
Becca: Book us two seats on United flight 666?
Hubby: I’d love to. Are we working undercover?
Becca: Not the way you think, you naughty man; business before pleasure. It’s just so much work to book a flight, and I’m really . . .
Hubby: Okay, done. So we’re going to Bangkok?
Becca: Great idea! How about in the pantry this time?
Hubby: Uh . . . I meant the city.
Becca: Oh, yeah. Right.
Hubby: Why there?
Becca: A certain iPhone told me I’d find D’Gooberville on that flight. Espionage is such hard work. Now about the pantry . . .
Act 3: Confronting the villain:
D’Gooberville: Ah, 00-oh. Here you are, just as I planned. All the toilets are occupied! What will you do?
Hubby: Who’s he?
Becca: A criminal mastermind. Would you refill my drink?
Hubby: Sure. Be careful, okay?
Becca: No worries. First, D’Gooberville, I’m calling you “Goober” for short.
Goober: I hate that name. Oh great, even the writer’s calling me Goober now!
Becca: Second, if you knew anything about me, you’d know I’d rather die than use a public restroom.
Goober: What do you do then?
Becca: I sparkle.
Goober: Damn! This ruins everything. Okay, Plan B: see this vial? It contains a highly virulent strain of influenza, and . . .
Becca: Yeah, my hypothical kid had that crud last week; he got over it.
Goober: This aerosol can is filled with poison gas that can . . .
Becca: Have you smelled my dog’s farts?
Goober: See this flash drive? It’s got . . . (he’s cut off by Becca’s phone ringing)
Becca: Hold on. Hello? Yes Jason, what is it? No, don’t do that one; do the one about the alligator in the toilet. Trust me, they’ll love it. You’ll have that done in 15 minutes, right? No, you can’t eat until it’s finished. Get busy. Bye. Okay Goober what were you saying?
Goober: This flash drive has the passcodes for every NATO . . .
Becca: If it isn’t porn, I don’t care.
Goober: I’m an evil genius!
Becca: You suck! Boris Badenov was a better villain than you.
Goober: That’s a very cruel thing to say.
Becca: Awwww. Don’t cry.
Goober: I just can’t believe you’d be so hurtful.
Becca: You’re so transparent. Stop trying to make me feel sorry for you. I know you want to show me your secret weapon, but it just isn’t going to happen.
Goober: Curses! It’s like you can read my mind.
Becca: Indeed. Look, if you turn yourself in and give all your stolen money to Doctors Without Borders, I’ll have a drink with you.
Goober: Um . . . how about two drinks?
Becca: Don’t push me . . .
Goober: Okay, okay! I’ll go turn myself over to the air marshal right now. Jeez!
Becca: And don’t forget to get your minions out of the johns. My husband might need in there.
Hubby: Everything okay?
Becca: Yep. Everything’s just fine. Hey, want to renew our membership in the mile-high club?