Hey, everyone. I like to imagine James Bond eventually got married, raised a family of kids,

and was cut out of their lives for the racism and drinking, and because he kept making a pass at

their college friends. Anyway, today is our roast of Goldfinger by Ian Fleming, who would

have embarrassed his own kids if he hadn't drunk and smoked himself to an early death on his

son's 12th birthday. Let's do this.

I'm Kellynne Erskine. I'm a comic, a father, and not so much a James Bond fan, more just a

curious observer. Calling yourself a curious observer is definitely what you would say after you've been caught doing something very bad.

And I'm David Vance.

My favorite response to Goldfinger is the article asking if you can really die of skin suffocation.

The first line is, no, we do not breathe through our skin.

Music The first line is, no, we do not breathe through our skin. Goldfinger is a classic minimalist book, in that the protagonist does basically nothing,

except get a woman killed, get captured, get another woman killed, get rescued.

007 is the percentage of actual work done by him.

And this is the book pile.

It's crazy that moment in the book when that woman is describing to him that gold finger

usually paints women everywhere except for along their spine so that their

skin can still breathe a little bit and they won't die. It's like what do you think happens

when you go swimming? Your heads above water, but the rest of your body's like,

I can't breathe.

Yeah, the skin suffocation thing was definitely told to Goldfinger by one of his captives. Like, I hope you don't kill me by skin suffocation.

Paint me in gold and then put me out back.

Ian Fleming was definitely one of those parents who taught their kids that they can't go to

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