And no, no, I can’t blame Ryan Reynolds. I should tell you, since we’re only just getting to know one another (hi!), that I looo-oooooove love Ryan Reynolds, because he reminds me of my first serious boyfriend, who was so smug but genuinely adorable. And Ryan Reynolds, that brawny Canadian stallion, has shit-eating, self-aware pseudo-smarm down to an algorithm.
So while I’m floundering around here on my fourth day of work, trying to decide how best to make you kids smirk, Ryan Reynolds is out there penning his own profile — a job ordinarily delegated to overeducated, undernourished journalists — for Entertainment Weekly. The man actually wrote his own cover story.
That jerk nails it, too, right down to the idiomatically conversational first-person plural you can only find in tabloid glossies’ styleguides:
We looked high and low to find just the right writer to pen our cover story on Ryan Reynolds. We needed someone who could match the actor’s sparkling wit, winning charisma, and staggering intelligence, not to mention his deep humility, inspiring humanitarianism, and perfect washboard abs. So we hired Ryan Reynolds. We don’t usually allow actors to write their own profiles, but hey, what can we say. We’re a little obsessed with Ryan Reynolds, too.
The rest of it is great, and he shifts into self-deprecation, but that last sentence of the introductory paragraph! Argh! It’s, just, what a good satire of fawning magazine writing.
I mean, it’s also kind of a dick move — “Look how easy this is! I can do this in my sleep!” — so, whatever, Ryan Reynolds. But also, good on you, you hilarious bastard.