Can I see your invitation?
Sure, here's my invitation.
It's a scale really, with a perfect mission at one end and a total pooch screw at the other, and we're right about in the middle.
I wanted to do something outrageous, and it felt really good, to be needed, and to be trusted. It's just there's so much I want to do with this life and it fells that I haven't done any of it. You know, the sand is running out of the hourglass, ao I want to look back and say, see, I did that, that was me, I was reckless and I was wild, and I fucking did it.
What can I say? I'm a spy.
Okay, just ask yourself: What do women really want? You take these bored housewives, married to the same guy for years, they're stuck in a rut, then need some release! Promise of adventure, a hint of danger. I create that for them.
So basically, your lying your ass off the whole time. See, I can't do that.
What are you, a boy scout? No, no, no, think of it as playing a role as fantasy. I mean, you got to work on their dreams. Get them out of their daily suburban grind for a few hours.
But what about their husbands?
Dickless! I mean, let's face it, if they took care of business, I'd be out of business! You know what I mean?
Sweet Jesus, Harry, you surely screwed the pooch last night, didn't you?