Villainous Notions

Last week, I bought a footstool. It was dark cheap wood and had dark tapestry fabric on the top, but the lid lifted for storage and it was only 5 bucks, so I got to thinking that I would paint the wood grey and re-upholster the top. Which I did, and the paint looked lovely (aside from the transfer I may or may not have put on slightly off-centre—see picture at the end). The problem was that the fabric on the underside looked choppy and unprofessional no matter how much I tried to trim it, but then I had an idea. I rummaged through my basket of sewing notions—well, it’s not so much a basket as an empty tin of Quality Street—and found something that just might resolve the issue:

Notice the manufacturer? It’s Kismet.

Me: Do you think this would work?
Ken: What is it?
Me: According to the packet, it’s Rick Rack.
Ken: Maybe…
Me: No, you’re right. The colour is all wrong. However, RickRack would make a great name for a James Bond villain.

Cue naughty fantasy sequence (and if you’re a little prudish, you might want to skip this one)…

M: Double-Oh-Seven, we need you. Apparently, RickRack has abducted Pussy Galore!
Bond: Pussy Galore? Again?! Well, Pussy is delightful. I can see why he keeps coming back for more.
M: Intercept RickRack before he gets to the Upper Holstery Islands and deliver Pussy to us, James.
Bond: I’m shaken, not stirred by this turn of events.

Some time later, on a cargo ship off the coast of the Upper Holstery Islands…

RickRack: Ah, Mr. Bond, I’ve been expecting you.
Bond: Release Pussy Galore, RickRack! There’s nowhere you can run.
RickRack: I’m never gonna give her up. I’m never gonna let her down.
Bond: Did—did you just Rickroll me?
RickRack: No, I RickRACKED you, Mr. Bond. But you can have her. To be honest, I’m not particularly fond of Pussy. I only kidnapped her to lure you to the Upper Holsteries.
Bond: But why, RickRack?
RickRack: Because…because I’m in love with you, James. Is there a chance for us?
Bond: Have you actually SEEN any of my movies?
RickRack: Sigh. I’m never gonna give you up—
Bond: Just stop. Come on, Pussy.
Pussy Galore: Oh James, thank you for saving me!
Bond: Enough of the small talk. We need to hurry—I have a date with Holly Goodhead later and no one misses a date with Goodhead!

And all I can do at this point is apologize for my giggly thirteen-year-old imagination, but in my defense:
a) I was going to include a scene with Bond and Q discussing a missile launcher that was extremely euphemistic but even I know when enough is enough and b) I’m not the one who named the Bond girls things like Miss Goodthighs, Chew Me, Xenia Onatopp, Holly Goodhead, Plenty O’Toole, and Pussy Galore. That was a DIFFERENT giggly thirteen-year-old. Happy Boxing Day.

37 thoughts on “Villainous Notions”

  3. Happy Boxing Day! Or, as I call it in America, Rams-Must-Beat-The-Vikings-To-Remain-In-First-Place-In-Their-Division Day! I like to shorten it to RMBTVTRIFPITD Day, though, because the long version is just too unwieldy. 🤷

    I like the footstool. Though maybe more blue and gold next time, maybe?

    Say, remember the Austin Powers’ girls? Alotta Fagina. Dixie Normous. Fook Mi. Fook Yu. Felicity Shagwell. I dare to say that my favorite Bond of all time was Mike Myers. 🙂

    Keep on rockin’ up there in the free world, sister, and give the Rams a “Go!” when you get a sec!

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  4. After all those euphemistically named women (to put it politely) I could see Mr Bond taking a walk on the wild side. RickRack would say “Take on me!” and Bond, going toward him, would reply, “You spin me around like a record!” And Pussy Galore would say to her female assistant, “Come on, Eileen.”
    And the assistant’s full name would be something like “Eileen Onabed” which only sounds naughty in the right context, but the important thing here is these now instead of Kung-fu fighting everyone is one-hit wondering.

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  7. No need to apologize here. I may have mentioned in the past that your sense of humor is just like my husbands (except he doesn’t know when enough is enough). Maybe that’s the difference between a giggly thirteen-year-old and a retired sailor. LO!

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  8. I thought rickrack was a drink. “I’ll have a rickrack straight up.” Something smoking, black, and noxious smelling in a thick stone goblet is delivered by a large woman wearing welding gear. Bar patrons scurry away, knocking over chairs and tables as they get away. The customer picks up the rickrack and tosses it back.

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