International spy, assassin, and insatiable womanizer, James Bond, also known as 007, passed away at the age of 48 from at least a dozen sexually transmitted diseases.
Attendees at his funeral included a diverse group of characters from Bond’s adventures.
Russian agent Madame Z. Titsalot was one of the mourners. Her two-inch steel fingernails, perfect for neck slashing, twinkled in the sunlight as she wiped away tears.
“I tell him,” she said. “Always use [the] condom. He [did] not listen.”
Even long-time Bond foes were in attendance. The terrorist mastermind of unspecified Eastern European origin, Rudolf Von Sinstar, stopped by to pay his respects.
“Bond was a worthy foe. I really thought my Brigade of Bikini Blade-mistresses would kill him. They had never failed me before. Instead, all five came back giggling like schoolgirls. It took hours of torture, but they finally admitted each one had slept with him. Two were pregnant.”
“I was enraged at the time,” Von Sinstar said, choking up. “But looking back, I should have been impressed.”
Other guests took turns recalling their favorite Bond moments. MI6 administrative assistant Miss Fullcarriage drew the biggest round of tearful laughs.
“Once while I was working at my desk, James leaned over, looked down my blouse, and said, ‘See if you can find some room in your carriage for me.’ So of course, I did. What woman could say no to him? I’ll never forget that evening. I still itch.”
After all the heartfelt tributes, the clock struck seven. A small explosive charge in the corpse’s genitals detonated, causing its penis to become erect. Bond’s long-time weapons and gadget manager, Q, held back a sniffle.
“My gift to you, old friend. One more for the long road, eh, double oh seven?”