BEHIND THE SCENES

Lord Buttsley Regrets

Why I am turning down “Bridgerton”

My Dearest Ms. Rhimes,

Imagine my astonishment to receive not only a splendid basket of assorted stone fruits and edible succulents, but also a letter from Regina Shonda Rhimes, the Queen of Television herself. I promptly fainted with gratitude. I came to hours later on my chaise longue while two assistants quietly rubbed my temples with newborn peacock down.

Such a letter! Such an opportunity! Shall Icarus fly to the Sun?

After days and nights in sweetest agony, I have arrived at the most vexing decision of my life.

I must turn down your request to appear as Lord Clench Buttsley on the next season of “Bridgerton.”

I should rather be pecked to death by a duet of osprey than cloud your brow, but cloud it I must.

Imagine my pain. The “Bridgerton” script sings from the page. The haughty but silently suffering Lord Clench Buttsley harbors a secret anguish that can only be assuaged by Viscount Farkley’s golden hearted, but cruelly overlooked youngest daughter, Chlymidia. Will the iron dictates of the British class system thwart Team Clenchmydia or will the world gasp at four episodes of their taboo-shattering erotic fireworks? Spoiler alert, the page was damp.

This gripping human drama plays out against a peerless pageant of blazing silks, masked cotillions, stately gardens and a million and one giant, preposterous, hats. Bliss, achieved.

I expect the tears of heartbreak, moans of ecstasy, and huzzahs of joy conjured here to be passed down from one generation to the next, like an emerald brooch. Or herpes. And in the center of it all, you have asked for me.

Now, I fear, we must address the ass in the Room.

Objectively, I am absurdly handsome. Of course, I make every one around me look like a sad toad.

But that’s just the amuse bouche. While admiring the cut of my many snug waistcoats, my piercing cerulean eyes, and my carefully curated sideburns, your viewers are asking themselves, how long must we wait to see his ass?

How long, indeed?

Let’s just say it, the real show begins when my tailored breeches fall around my ankles. Warm up acts are fine in their place, and I admire the Pips as much as the next fellow, but at some point one must bring on Gladys Knight.

Anyone asks me if I have a problem with nudity I will always say, yes, there isn’t nearly enough of it. Like the Mona Lisa, my wondrous ass was created to be seen by as many people as possible. I will not hide this light under a bushel. Or a nightshirt.

As it exists, your script forces the poor viewer to sit through several lifetimes of m’lord this and m’lady that before serving up the sweet cakes.

Slow burn, you say. Get on with it, I say.

Could Lord Buttsley not indulge in an au naturel Lake Country swim, in real time?

Could Lord Buttsley not sustain an arrow injury to his left flank that requires extensive examination by the local ingenues?

Could we not spend a hour in a sculpture class inspecting Lord Buttsley’s contours from every flattering angle?

Could, and should. When our viewers plead , “Please sir, I want some more,” do we cast them out like Oliver Twist, butt-starved and miserable? Not on my watch.

You must know my derriere is hitting its zenith popularity-wise. Right now is Peak Butt. I assert that every moment of screen time where Lord Buttsley’s assets fail to appear is a moment wasted. Until this nudity deficit is remedied, I must remain on the sidelines.

Think of it from my perspective. Should I allow a million squats, lunges and gluteal kickbacks to go to waste?

Time is cruel. Gravity is pitiless. I must get what I can, while I can, before my can becomes just another can.

While I don’t mean to suggest that the The Brothers Cheek have other offers, they have other offers. With many round sexy zeroes.

Gentle lady, do not think I feel I am too good for “Bridgerton.” Never. But, I’ve got two fierce divas in my trousers and they have such grand ambitions, above and beyond even the splendor of Buttsley Manor.

They seek the crown. The moon is not enough.

With unbounded gratitude,

yr. obdt. svt.

TKJ