People often say to me, “Mig, you speak a foreign language, you live in Europe, you have a secret identity, you’re a habitual liar, why aren’t you a secret agent?” And I smile my mysterious smile and say, “If I were a secret agent, I wouldn’t go around telling people, would I?” and order another martini.
The fact is, though, there are ten good reasons I’m not a secret agent.
- I’m a poor multi-tasker: I seriously doubt that I could kick a large, dead man through the sixth-storey railing of a Parisian apartment building stairwell, then hop on and ride his body all the way down to the ground floor, shooting another bad guy between the eyes on the way, and walk away from the whole experience with a small scrape on my head. (Beta and I went to see the Bourne Identity last weekend, it was okay.)
- If a highly-trained killer twice my size burst through a glass wall firing a machine gun, I would have to call a time-out while I went and changed my pants. In fact, I would even if the killer were half my size.
- I might be able to drive a small car at a high speed the wrong way through medium-heavy Parisian traffic, but no way on purpose with cops chasing me.
- While I can throw a knife, I can’t make the point stick into anything.
- While wearing a tuxedo, I can’t run very fast very far, swim a mile underwater without making any bubbles (especially after a Mexican meal), evade a lion, ride a cello case down a snowy mountain slope, or dance.
- When I enter a restaurant, the first thing I notice is, “where’s the restroom,” and “hey, cute wait-personnel,” not “the waitress is left-handed, there are three exits, the man at the bar weighs 220 lbs and has a black belt in judo and the cook speaks Arabic with a Yemeni accent.”
- I can’t steer a para-glider, hotwire a car or pick a lock. Well, some locks but not enough for secret missions.
- I always, always forget to check my car for bombs, and if the brake lines have been cut. I could kick myself.
- When I get drunk, I blab and blab and blab.
- I am easily confused by flattery.
I think it’s all a bunch of lies just to throw us off your trail.
How obvious can you get? What a horrible secret agent you are Francisco Miguel.
You’re perfect for the semi-secret missions. There’s honor (and chicks) in that too, you know.
I want to hear more about semi-secret missions. Is that like, “we’re sending you on this mission, they know about it, but not much…”. Chicks, huh?
You know, I was at the U.N. today, and the most interesting thing I managed to do was drip Thousand Island salad dressing on my tie.
1000 island on the tie = mtn. dew sprayed on computer screen
What? You live in Europe? Never! I thought you wrote to us from Tahiti, comrade.
The pearl is in the river.
Three crows fly to the southwest.
I have no idea where Uncle Leonard is today.
i can tell you’ve given this a great deal of thought, in trying to convince us of your everyday civilian-hood. being the SuperHero i am, i can’t help but notice that, while posting this, you cleverly embedded several secret messages. you also have the remains of a splintered cello case at your feet and the smell of gunpowder permeates your being. i think you’re hiding something from us, my friend.
i’m on to you.