It started as a petty prank, as so many things on the Internet do. I had missed a question on a Facebook quiz, the subject of which was On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, the only James Bond film to star Australian actor George Lazenby as the intrepid agent 007. The question was about where a certain Bond girl, Ruby Bartlett was born. Easy…Lancashire.
Wrong. But how could I be? I own that movie! I’ve seen it more times than I’ve taken a crap! Enraged, I emailed the author of the quiz:
“Ruby Bartlett is from Lancashire dumbnutz!”
I received a response:
“She’s from MORECAMBE which is IN Lancashire. Now, what’s that Yank expression, oh yes…dumbass.”
Needless to say, I’ve never been more fucking pissed in my life. Writing this now, I’m fucking pissed. If I ever care to read this after I post it, I will be fucking pissed. This snooty British FUCK thinks he’s a better Bond fan than me just because I fell for some trick question. I mean, who cares about English geography anyway? The whole country is so small it could fit in Delaware’s butthole.
I was hungry for revenge. Bloodthirsty. But what could I do with only Facebook at my fingertips? I logged out and clicked to sign up for a new account.
Name: George Lazenby
Status: Bond, James Bond.
Presto, I was, for all Facebook purposes, George Lazenby. I had his face, his name, and the ability to poke people. Mwuhahahaha! First and last order of business: send a message to that British prick.
Subj: Great Quiz!
Not. You are a supreme bag of douche. As someone who fucked both Ruby Bartlett AND your mom let me say: Suck my Octoballs Thunderpussy!
I’ve never laughed so hard at my own shit. Thinking about it now, I’m laughing. My new e-enemy had a very thoughtful comeback: “Cock!” Wow, what a writer. The next Ian Fleming, rocking the qwertyboard.
So I was satisfied. I told my buddies about it, had a few laughs, and that was the end of it. Or so I thought. Out of the blue, people started friend requesting me…I mean George. So I accepted. I figured people realized this was a joke and wanted in on the fun. And then they started messaging me, telling me what an honor it was to be friends with George Lazenby.
The fans poured their hearts out about what an impact George’s performance had on them, and how much they admired him. I’d respond with a pleasant, but patronizing “Thanks, mate.” I was so freaked out by this outpouring of e-love for George Lazenby that it took me about two hours to compose that stupid message. I debated for a good forty-five minutes over whether the “mate” was too Australian or just Australian enough.
And then I had my first scare. One of my…er…George’s friends sent a message about coming to a book signing to meet me…er…George. I freaked out. What happens if this guy starts babbling about Facebook at the signing and George is like “I don’t have a Facebook account, mate!” and then Scotland Yard hunts me down and I get extradited to England and sent to the Tower of London for identity fraud? I’d be the black sheep of Bondage! No self-respecting Bond fan would even play a round of GoldenEye64 with me!
Terrified, I logged into my George account the day after the signing. I thought this guy was gonna rail on me for not being the real George. But he didn’t. He posted up a picture of him shaking hands with George and tagged me in it! He messaged me to tell me what a great honor it was to meet me. Phew. Talk about a close one. I made a comment on the photo: “Handsome Chaps.”
My Facebook fraud had brushed against reality. This guy knew the real George Lazenby and the Facebook George Lazenby and hadn’t noticed a thing. And then I started thinking, do these people really think I’m George Lazenby?
I mean, I’m friends with super-hot golfer Natalie Gulbis on Myspace but I know it’s not actually her. It’s just some poor, bored, loser. Like me.
Maybe my Facebook George is like Santa. All signs point to bullshit, but people still want to believe. Was I doing my fellow Bond fans a great service, or was I playing them for fools? I couldn’t decide. Every time George made a new friend, or someone sent him a heartwarming message, I considered shutting down my account. But I couldn’t bring myself to it. People wanted to shower George Lazenby with love and admiration, and who was I to stop them?
And then the real George was in the news. Divorce. A nasty one. The support came rushing in. People from all over the world were offering their kindest thoughts and messages of hope. Our friend from the book signing sent the longest and most thoughtful. He told of his own personal experience going through a divorce, and the wounds it had caused. He opened his heart and soul to George Lazenby. It was the most wonderful letter I’d ever received, and I felt like a sneaky little bastard reading it. I only wished that I could some how deliver it to George, and erase my memory of it. I’m sorry Mr. Lazenby. And my sincerest apologies to the loyal friend you don’t know you have.
So I’m turning myself in.
I am (not) George Lazenby.