Orlando who?

Dear Orlando Bloom:

Hi. Remember me? I know, I know. It's been a while. QUITE a while, actually. I know, I suck. There's really no excuse. If it's any comfort, there's members of my family who haven't heard from me longer than you have. (It's a comfort to me, frankly. There's valid reasons I don't talk to them.)

But listen, we need to talk. We really need to have a little Come-To-Jesus. An intervention, if you will.

And no, it's not about your horrible taste in women. I mean, that horse is not only out of the barn, it went down the road, willingly walked up to the glue factory, got hit with a 2x4 in the head and ended up having tasty sugar-free Jell-O snack cups made out of its hooves. (only 10 calories each. Yum.) You knocked her up, you married her, you have a kid. You're stuck. FOREVER. DON'T CRY FOR ME, ARGENTINA.

We have a problem. A major problem. A problem so major that it made me break LJ silence, with a migraine even. I mean, my mother's latest escapades couldn't make me break silence, but this...

We need to talk about



Oh, don't try to wriggle out of this. This is a HUGE problem. I mean, really? REALLY?



Now, I'm not one of those militant "never wear sweatpants out of the house" type people. Nor am I one of those people who ascribes certain colors to certain levels of masculinity. It takes a manly man to wear some colors.

But seriously, dude. Let's talk.

Those sweatpants are an offense to... well, just about anything and everything. I was going to say God and man, but I'm pretty sure most phylums and species are offended by them too. Definitely invertebrates at the very least.

Now, you always have had a interesting sense of style, but that was always part of your charm. My kryptonite has always been British guys with great hair and bad clothes (see Taylor, John). British guys with great hair and bad clothes made my lady bits dance and sing.

But these photos? My vagina cried out in terror and then was suddenly silenced.

You know why it was silenced? Because after it saw those pictures, it rappelled down my leg, packed a bag and headed to Vegas to be a Craps dealer. Because these pictures prove that God is dead and there is no hope left in the world. Or at least in your fandom. Which used to be my vagina's world. (I know, it was a bit narrowly focused, but cut it some slack. It is just a vagina, after all.)

Remember 2005? That was a good year. A VERY good year. I used to look at pictures of you and drool on myself. Literally.

Let's review:



Good.



Nice, nice.



TASTY. Like my underwear have scorchmarks TASTY. MMMM.

How did we go from THAT to THIS:

::record scratch noise::



NO. JUST STOP. DO NOT PASS GO. DO NOT COLLECT $200. DO NOT EVER PUT YOUR PENIS IN A VAGINA EVER AGAIN. DO NOT PUT YOUR PENIS IN THE SAME AREA CODE AS A VAGINA. EVER.

Or THIS:



The fuck? What the fuck is up with that ironic hipster retro cell phone handset shit?

Or this:



No. Bad movie star. No biscuit.

Just stop this shit now before I drive out to wherever the Hell you are and beat you with a rolled up newspaper.

I'm not saying that you should look the same as you did six years ago. But just because you married a supermodel with a great body and a room temperature IQ does not mean that you can stop trying. Trying specifically defined as bathing. And combing your hair once a week. Or wearing pants with zippers. Or wearing pants, for that matter.

Don't make me come over there. You wouldn't like it. I promise.