license to ill

It’s Thanksgiving. The Fella, who has been terribly sick for days, is juuuuust starting to feel a bit better. His instructions for today: DO NOTHING, just rest. I’m drinking coffee and getting ready to make our two-person feast. A preview for a Bond-movie marathon plays in the background.

Elsa: I’ve never seen the Timothy Daltons.
The Fella: They’re not very good. It’s not Dalton’s fault.
Elsa: Dalt- No! I’ve seen the Daltons. The other one. The — the — Brosnan? There’s a Brosnan? PIERCE!
The Fella: There’s only one good one.
Elsa: I might be sick, honey.
The Fella NOOOOOO!
Elsa: [stricken] I confused my Bonds!

update: OH NO, it’s worse than I thought. This whole time we were talking/I was typing, I’ve been confusing Lazenby for Dalton. I might be REALLY sick.

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