3. Worst remake of the day: Man, and just when I thought the “Lone Ranger meets the werewolves“  was going to Bruckheimer this week into oblivion, we hear Ridley Scott is taking the helm of a “Blade Runner” do-over. OK, but will it have ghost Indians like Obi-Wan Kenobi?

4. Method acting of the day: Anne Hathaway watched a bunch of videos of cats on YouTube to prepare for her role as Catwoman in “The Dark Knight Rises.”  That’s so weird; I didn’t know that I had also been spending the last four years of my life preparing for a Christopher Nolan film.

5. “Office” family reunion of the day: Josh Groban will be guest-starring as Ed Helms’ brother on the NBC comedy next season. The dad from “7th Heaven” will be playing Mr. Bernard Sr., and the mom from “E.T.” will be his wife. Happy family!

“OK! Yes! Coming!” Ryan shouted, a little too loudly. He stared at his reflection in the mirror one final time. This would have to do … maybe post-production would take care of the sweat, the bags under the eyes, the constant look of fear he had worn for the past three months.

“No,” Ryan said quietly, looking away from the mirror, refusing to look down to the thing that lived beneath his shirt. “Not today.”

It was show time.

After the segment, Ryan ran back to the green room and retched into the toilet violently. Another knock from the P.A. (Mark? Miles?): “Are you OK in there, Mr. Gosling?”

“I’m fine, go away!” Ryan shouted. He wiped his mouth and flushed the toilet, making sure the door was locked.

“You should have let her see me,” said the small voice. “You should let everyone see me.” Ryan ripped off his $200 pre-faded T-shirt and stared at the monster he created. His abdominal muscles glistened and rippled like a Greek god.

“That’s better,” said Ryan Gosling’s stomach. “Much better. Look at how beautiful we are, Ryan. Look.”

Ryan refused to look, but one of his hands brushed against the hard muscles of his abdomen. It was hot to the touch, and glowed with such unholy life that his hand immediately recoiled, balling into a fist. His abs laughed at him.

“We make a great pair, you and I,” said the voice from his stomach, from his head, from everywhere. “I look so much better on you than I did on Ryan Reynolds. Aren’t you glad that Reynolds offered to share that protein shake with you? The protein shake he stole from an old gypsy woman … right after he ran over her.”

Gosling closed his eyes, willing the voice to be quiet. He must be going insane. “Stupid, crazy,” he muttered to himself, than realizing his words laughed maniacally. “You’re not real! I am me! I control you! You’re just my stupid six-pack!”

The abs clenched and unclenched one muscle at a time, as if to prove a point. “No, Ryan, it is I who control you. The whole world loves Ryan Gosling’s abs now. You are nothing without me.”

“That’s not true! I had a career before you! I had ‘The Notebook,’ and ‘Half Nelson.’ People respected my work!”

“People respected you … but now they love you. You are a star, Ryan. This is the price you must pay.”

“No!” Ryan Gosling’s eyes flew open as he smashed his fist into the bathroom mirror, the million falling shards reflecting his perfect, rock-hard stomach. “I will not be a slave to my beautiful body!”

It had gone on for far too long. Ryan went back to the main room, took out his razor and his shaving kit, and threw them into the trash.

“What are you doing?” screamed his super-hot, perfectly toned thorax. “Don’t you dare!”

“Oh, won’t I?” Ryan picked up a bag of complimentary potato chips, shoveling them into his mouth with great abandon. “I’m going to eat this entire bag of chips, and then maybe a hamburger or two,” he said to his stomach, “and after that I’m going to grow my whole beard back.”

Ryan Gosling’s sculpted abs screamed in a voice not of this world. “You wouldn’t dare bring back the beard! He was worse than us! You can’t be famous with a neck beard, Ryan!”

“Just watch me,” Ryan said, mouth full of chips. He smiled at himself for the first time in months. He could already see a little bit of sandy stubble forming on his cheeks. The longer strands on his chin caught the falling crumbs from the chips and held them for Ryan to find later, the way an old friend might. Ryan Gosling’s beard had big plans for the two of them. Oh yes, it did.

Ralph Fiennes woke up with the sun streaming through his loft windows in New York. Even though he was British, Ralph loved to travel. He had just flown in from Barcelona the night before, where he had been hanging out with Geoffrey Rush, with whom he co-shared a private villa and a deep friendship. The two men had been drinking ’til dawn, swapping stories about their experiences on the set of “The King’s Speech,” which had brought Fiennes the third Best Actor Oscar of his career for his portrayal of the stuttering ruler.

“It’s all bloody well that you got the statue for playing the king,” Geoffrey had said once they were well into their cups, “But you know the real money is doing these ‘Pirates’ films. I’ve made a billion dollars, Ralphie. A billion dollars off of ‘effing ‘Pirates!’”

Ralph had laughed good-naturedly, but he didn’t much envy his friend. He knew that this morning, Geoffrey would likely be on the set of the franchise he had been tied to for years without a break. No one even remembered “Shine” anymore… Instead, a whole generation of kids just knew the skilled actor as Captain Barbossa, and would boo him on the street. “Ah, damn you Ralphie,” Geoffrey said as they parted ways as the sun began to rise over the surrounding Gaudi architecture, “but for the grace of God, go I. If only you weren’t such a damn fool snob when it came to choosing work!”

It was true, Ralph Fiennes thought to himself as he got dressed and ducked into his favorite Starbucks (the one on 37th street, right next to the Crunch gym where he planned to work out later): better to follow the path of his other best mate, Jeremy Irons, who routinely refused roles in movies that had any chance of a sequel, than to end up with loads of money in exchange for a decade of your career you could never get back.

Nobody at Starbucks bothered Ralph Fiennes, though his barista had hesitantly mentioned how much she had loved him as Colonel Hans Landa in “Inglorious Basterds.” Ralph had smiled and obliged the hard-working young woman with his famous catch-phrase from that movie, “That’s ah-jackpot!” His Venti iced soy latte had been on the house.

Ralph Fiennes had planned to stroll through Central Park, but found himself avoiding 42nd street. For the last few days, Times Square had been overrun by a mob of people waiting impatiently in line to see the final “Harry Potter” film. Ralph Fiennes shook his head, a sad smile on his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his mate Daniel Day-Lewis, who was currently serving out his sentence in the last of those insanely popular children’s films as the villain Volder-something.

It wasn’t so long ago that Daniel and Ralph had been working on shoes together in the street of Vienna, taking a much-needed respite between pictures. Daniel had been cobbling, while Ralph had taken up the artisanal craftsmanship of a cordwainer. Daniel asked Ralph what he thought of the script about a boy wizard, and if he should take the role of its noseless dark lord “as a goof.” Ralph had been obliged to answer truthfully.

“It seems like a fun character,” Ralph Fiennes said, threading the last stitch of a fine leather boot, “but honestly, I think you should take the part in that P.T. Anderson film you were considering last month. The one about the oil tycoon?”

“Actually, I turned down that job,” Daniel said. “It just seemed like kind of a downer to me. And it didn’t make very much sense. At the end I would have to kill a priest with a bowling pin, while screaming about drinking his milkshake.” Ralph had laughed at the time, but he wasn’t laughing when he accepted his Oscar that year for his performance as Daniel Plainview in “There Will Be Blood.” His old cobbling friend had come to congratulate him after the show, but unfortunately Vanity Fair’s exclusive after-party didn’t have Daniel Day-Lewis’ name on the list. The “Last of the Mohicans” actor had to spend half an hour arguing with a bouncer that he wasn’t just some “D-list kiddie star” before calling Graydon Carter himself.

Eventually, Daniel got into the party, because he still was a pretty famous and well-respected actor, but it was embarrassing for everyone involved.

Ralph sipped his iced latte and decided to text Daniel. “Just saw the crowds for HP,” he typed on his iPhone, “Good luck with all that. Drinks soon?”

But Ralph Fiennes knew that he would not be getting drinks with Daniel Day-Lewis anytime in the near future, nor would he be bumping into him on set or in pitch meetings. Sure, Daniel would be fine, and he’d still be able to nab some juicy role here or there. But to them, to the audience, he would always be the evil-doer who tried to kill Harry Potter. Or maybe he did kill Harry Potter in the end. Ralph Fiennes didn’t actually know what happened: He hadn’t read any of the books or seen the movies.

Ralph Fiennes had better things to do with his time.

___________________________________________________________

Albus Dumbledore looked down his long, white beard at the latest applicant for the teaching position at Hogwarts.

“So, Miss Winterloon, you’ve seen our grounds and our games of Quidditch. You’ve explored or grounds. Your resume is quite impressive. Do you have any questions for us?”

Miss Winterloon did in fact have a few questions. A few questions regarding this boarding school’s benefit plans. Even after Albus had patiently explained to her that there was no need for a healthcare provider when Madam Pomfrey could do a healing spell on anything from Brackium Emendo to Vulnera Sanentur, she hadn’t heard anything about dental coverage yet. In fact, the only thing even mentioned about these kid’s hygiene seemed to come in the form of a Densaugeo spell. Which might be great when defending against enemies whose teeth you needed to grow at an alarming rate, but wasn’t going to do fuck-all when it came to that molar cavity she needed filled.

“Look,” Dumbledore said, “If you’d like, we have a Flex Plan on the Slytherin account, which allows you to roll over any unused magic potions to a new year.”

“Does this plan expand to my dependants?” asked Winterloon, her raven black hair rustling behind her.

“No, unfortunately under our current plan, only the students’ can be claimed as dependants, and then only by their Muggle guardians. Here, let me get you the paperwork…”

_______________________________________________________

“Wait, can you back up for a second?” asked the Bloody Baron. Peeves the poltergeist merely shrugged and went about beating old women with canes and socks full of chalk.

“No, I’m serious Peeves, did you ever thought that children should not be so chill around us? I mean, put in another context and we could be Wes Craven’s next terrible movie concept.”

Perry’s eyes lit up, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, bro?”

“Totally. Let’s go ‘Paranormal Activity’ the hell out of the girl’s lavatories.”

_________________________________________________________

“Look,” said Voldermort to the dark-eyed, beautiful witch that stood before him. “I really like you Bellatrix, but…”

“But what? As a friend? We are over fifty Voldy, please do not give me this teen angst, ‘Twilight-y’ bullshit. We had an Unbreakable Vow, you bastard.”

“Yeah about that…”

And so it began. The parting was not easy. It seemed so strange to Bellatrix that even a high witch such as herself, one who was so accrued to bringing others pain and suffering, could still feel cut so deeply when that freak without a nose had a serpent drop off her collection of Charles Mingus and Cat Stevens vinyl at Azkaban without even a Confundo spell attached to help her forget. This was one Unforgivable Curse you wouldn’t find in the Dark Arts section on your local library.

And to think, she had ever gotten that stupid Dark Mark tattoo on her arm, because she wanted to fit in with all of his other Death Eater friends…

_________________________________________________________

“You know,” Harry Potter said to Ron, “I never thought I’d say this, but lying here with you is the safest I’ve ever felt.” The wizard snuggled into his ginger-haired companion’s shoulder, feeling the fine tickling of Ron’s chest hair and the regular heartbeat of his dear friend.

“Hey there, big guy,” Ron lifted Harry’s chin up with one finger until the two young Hogwarts’ students were staring each other straight in the eye. “Right back at you.”

It’s hard to believe now that the “Sad Keanu” phenomenon wasn’t a marketing stunt to sell Keanu’s new book, “Ode to Happiness,” which just so happens to be tongue-in-cheek emo observations from Neo himself. “Happiness” seems more clever and cerebral than I usually give Keanu credit for — one page reads “I draw a hot sorrow bath” and on the following, “In my despair room” — and since it was written by a celebrity and doubles as an art book by Alexandra Grant, it’s retailing for $55 a pop. That should make him happy.

But Keanu plans to extend his role as an author to another book, this time of poetry. As he told the Guardian:

“I’m considering another idea I call Haikus of Hope. Basically like, ‘I want to kill myself’, and go from there. Going into such a dark place that you can somehow surprisingly find the light at the end of the tunnel — but a nice end of the tunnel. Not the end of the tunnel.”

Thanks for clarifying the tunnel difference. Luckily we got our hands on an upcoming copy of the actor’s new poetry* and want to give our readers the first glimpse into Keanu haiku. Because, Keanu, the plural of haiku is just “haiku.”

- – - – -

Life’s bogus journey

Will often reap no rewards

Like doing Shakespeare

- – - – -

Bleeding out my eye

The pain is unbearable

Watching “The Lake House”

- – - – -

It is so dark here

What is the absence of light?

Wait, just blinked too long

- – - – -

Ponder a muffin

Why does it make me so sad?

My low blood sugar

- – - – -

Will never escape

From the shadow of Neo

Must stop saying “Whoa.”

- – - – -

*No we didn’t.