I would like to tell you a tale of a young Cumberbuttcheeks, long before she knew of a pair of adorable butt cheeks and razor sharp cheekbones.
Long ago, I saw a young Orlando Bloom as Legolas in the first Lord of the Rings movie. It was my first sexual awakening. There, in the movie theatre, I tingled. I didn't understand what was going on. I thought I'd had too many Sour Patch Kids. And then I realized - whenever that platinum haired piece of deliciousness came on screen, I had the tingles. I was drop dead in love with an elf.
My love for Orlando Bloom fully blossomed watching Pirates of the Caribbean when he really embraced that whole 'save the damsel in distress' thing - it did it for 15-year-old Cumberbuttcheeks. I had posters in my room. I planned to go to the same acting school he attended in London. I knew everything there was to know about him. To this day I can still recall that his favourite colour is yellow and his favourite food is oatmeal.
Aside: Who the fuck likes oatmeal that much? It was his greatest flaw, as I could never share his love for oatmeal, because That Shit Is Nasty And I Will Not Have It Orlando, I Will Not.
My love for Orlando Bloom started to fade somewhere between Elizabethtown and Troy (understandably). My teenage obsession waned as I diversified my portfolio of potential famous lovers. Many people joined the list, but there was a void. Something was missing. A tall, debonair smart ass with a scarf was missing.
Benedict Cumberbatch came upon me much like my love for Orlando Bloom. I didn't understand it at first. He wasn't conventionally attractive. He wasn't shirtless and declaring his love for a damsel in distress. What the shit was with these tingles? After A Scandal in Belgravia, he could have made me beg for mercy - twice.
I continued watching episodes of Sherlock with Mr. Buttcheeks, who happily tolerated my blatant drooling over Cumberbatch. He laughed and shook his head, entertained. But tonight, when we went to see The Desolation of Smaug, he was stricken with the ferocity of my carnal reaction to having my two great loves - Bloom as Legolas and Cumberbatch's voice - in the same movie. I was transfixed (can your vagina be transfixed too? Cause it felt like it), huddling into my seat and giggling like Gollum presented with two shiny rings. What Magic Mike was to my mom's middle aged friends, The Desolation of Smaug was to me - an unapologetic orgy of deliciousness being paraded across the screen purely for my pleasure.
Can you imagine what it would be like if Cumberbatch was actually on screen? I'd need a private showing. For my privates.
Even though I'm usually a stickler for movie adaptations keeping with the plot as much as possible, Peter Jackson can sprinkle as much Orlando Bloom across that screen as he pleases. In fact, make the final movie a showdown between Smaug and Legolas, just for shits and giggles. Have it end with Legolas tenderly touching the cheek of a dying Smaug, who gracefully transforms into a naked, remorseful Cumberbatch at the feet of Legolas. Have him reach down and hold Cumberbatch's head to his chest, tenderly cradling him -
Whoa. Pardonez-moi. I was in my bunk.
P.S. Sorry for using the word panties, it just works.