Quiz: Which Bond Girl Are You?

You're a Jinx, huh? Roar... ;-)

Wut? I like your result. And what it says isn't that unlikely, no?

The athletic and goals bit aside, the rest of it is highly probable, yes ) This post was edited by Benedict Arnold at November 16, 2016 12:39 AM MST

Aha. I will stick to my first comment/thought... Roar...

Roar

Sexy. Ahem. Purr.

Same here!

Yay! We are more than one Vesper. How do you think the description fits you? I'd like think of you like that. :-)

Mayday in A View to a Kill

Woah. I wonder what the description said. She is a dangerous acquaintance to make.

Oh my. I loved that entry. Even though you didn't make the quiz. Such a tour into the secrets of Mr. Bond's world, and that of Bambi and MoneyPenny. Where do I find her? Uhm. 

Oh, but l DID do the quiz!
It's on Facebook.
Bambi is a doctors wife.
When l met her...she INSISTED on having her clothes ripped off!

Now she is in too much of a "hurry".

And INSISTS on a woman performing this most "menial" of roles...x

I love her more and more. ;-)

Bambi was carrying again, and she didn't really want to go out in our canoe. Its slow rolling pitch nauseated her beyond belief, as she sat in the bow, slim as a boy, with no swelling of pregnancy yet, wondering idly if she would keep our baby this time.
"Anthony".
"Cattle grazing is the biggest single driver of deforestation".
"And in this country, more than sixty percent of cleared land ends up as pasture, most of which has low productivity, supporting less than one head per hectare".
She was right.
Across much of the Amazon, the primary objective for cattle ranching was to establish land claims, rather than produce beef or leather. But market-oriented cattle production would nonetheless, expand rapidly in the next decade. We had come to this lost corner of the jungle looking for clues to the disappearance of Bambi's father, a sixty-seven-year-old botanist and feature film director, who had travelled half way across the Andes in his search for possible locations, in which to shoot a new adventure.
Bambi and l doted on him, and hoped his journey would somehow resurrect a career that had been in the horse latitudes for five years or more. Our canoe was loaded with sound recording equipment and a 35mm cine camera, as well as several reels of expensive celluloid, at least one of which would hopefully see its first light, in the brief moments before James Robert Falcon walked into frame.
"Daddy always wanted to make 'Heart of Darkness' as a passion play".
"That was his vision, and why he always struggled with funding".
"And in the end, it almost destroyed him".
That was true.
Bambi's father had released his reinterpretation of Pygmalion as a western ten years earlier, and the film had been universally panned.
The critics had howled at a syphilitic prostitute Eliza Doolittle, schooled in assassination by alcoholic Henry Higgins, who was little more than an elderly pederast, with military pretensions. His next project, 'Hollywood Gynaecologist', was a shameless exploitation flick, which featured the bedroom exploits of a Jim Morrison 'lookalike' who spent his days travelling from obstetrics ward to private consultation on a high powered Norton motorcycle.
The antihero of this movie was one l could identify with; a passionate flawed medico, whose brilliant vision of the coming apocalypse had saved him from becoming nothing more than a pushy careerist with a PhD, and l had left the cinema smugly confident in my own kingdom of cervical mucus and dust.
James Robert Falcon's career effectively ended six months later and he was reduced to directing TV soaps, and commercials for feminine hygiene products, coconut shampoo and spermicidal jelly. The working title of his new project was 'In Transit' and he really was in transit, dammit.
And nowhere to be found.
Our canoe suddenly lurched and Bambi fell backwards, striking her head on the gunwale. She rolled onto her side and let out a string of loud belches, then silently vomited our morning breakfast, a mixture of sour milk and maize porridge.
There were discrete clots of blood, some the size of pencil erasers, floating in the clear, yellow streaked fluid, and I thought of the ruby engagement ring, waiting for her back home. A sharp, though not unpleasant smell rose from the bilges, an amalgam of ethyl alcohol and gastric juices. I picked up one of the tacky fragments, then experimentally lifted it to my lips.
Bambi opened her eyes and smiled, as l tasted her spent haemoglobin, then vomited up a fresh pile of sloughed epithelium and bile duct secretions.
As exciting as the membrane of her vagina.
As refined as the rectal mucus of a Fairy Queen.

Haha. I just noticed get what you want. Fits so well to one of your prior status updates here. Tiffany is so much you, and suits you! :-)

Haha...Good catch.

They say I'm an ignorant blonde. ;-)

Who?  Them over there? They always talk jive.