Ryan Reynolds is a lot like the Spam of the film industry. He’s in everybody’s cabinets. Although, you don't usually know what you’re getting into when you open up a can of that mysterious glop, so maybe that exact metaphor isn’t very apt here. No, he’s more like mayonnaise. You can spread it on toast; add it to the pot; even stick your finger in the jar, but no matter which way you abuse it, it’s always going to be one thing at its intrinsic value: Mayonnaise. And that’s not inherently a bad thing to be: Humannaise.
Look, I am not here to make anyone feel morose, or mortified, or any other M-word. He is a gorgeous man with gorgeous talent, but by-God is he fucking everywhere. Which brings me back to Spam. Okay, I’ll drop the Spam, but you get it, right? Back in the early 2000s he was like seasoning salt. You’d sprinkle him here and there, and it was always a nice surprise when that flavor hit—smacking you right in your naughty, little mouth and making you say, “That was absolutely delicious.” All right, I’ll drop the whole fucking food bit. But still.
Recently, like, ten-straight-years-in-a-row recently, he is e v e r y w h e r e. On billboards; in commercials; theatrical releases; television releases. The guy is insanely busy. The guy is always coming out with a new product. Really, I’m just impressed. To be honest. It’s quite impressive. That stamina is something to covet, and trust me, I covet. I am thoroughly impressed. Did I say enough variations of the word impress? Who’s to say. Though, that’s not to state that I’m anyone of importance to impress (it’s a nice word, okay?), far from it, but goodness-me, is anybody else noticing this? I mean, you’ve got to. At this point, you’d be willingly ignoring it if not. Living in ocular squalor, so to speak, not for lack of a better term. He’s like a virus infecting the entertainment industry in the most palatable way imaginable. Have you gotten the point yet? He has become essential to our well-being, whether we willingly embrace it or not.
I hope he never dies. Yeah. Let’s drink some Aviation Gin to that notion, shall we? Cheers to you, Ryan, you Canadian-ass Barbie doll. Don’t you ever change. Except age-wise. You can’t help that.
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