You know how it happens. Once in a blue moon the craving will hit. Mouth watering and stomach growling, an uncontrolled urge sends you screeching out the driveway at top speed. Ten minutes later you’re panting and sweating in a McDonald’s drive-through line, having placed at order for a quarter pound of gristle on a sesame seed bun.

And when you bite into that mashed-down mess of ketchup, supposed beef, and bread, you regret wasting the gas it took to seize another 410 calories of fetid, adulterated fast food. Time for a diet!

That’s how I felt after watching Paul Blart: Mall Cop (2009).

I was hungry for a comedy, and in a frenzy I locked on to this Happy Madison combo meal. I knew it wouldn’t be good for me, that it’s the film equivalent of a artery-clogging ball of cholesterol. I should have put up my guard against this noxious agent of cultural obesity.

Kevin James is not a good actor. If we want to stick with the hyperbole here — I’m trusting you’ll forgive me — James is all calories, no taste, a steamed-to-death limp, processed meat patty… thing. And I didn’t laugh. The “plot” was little more than a greasy cardboard box to deliver this fast food film. The Segway slapstick and the fat-guy-in-a-thin-man’s-world punchlines have been sitting under the heating lamp too long.

I almost compared them to a McRib sandwich, but that would mix our metaphor far beyond reason.

The only bright spots in this Netflix outing were the badguys’ kinetic free running and extreme skateboarding/biking around the mall. They were like small… bursts of flavorful… um… pickles? I don’t want to take this whole food thing too far.

And like McDonald’s, Paul Blart survives on the stupidity of fat-head consumers. It’s grossed $183 million (£113 million), but popularity doesn’t necessarily indicate quality. I want some good meat from Five Guys or Brown Bag Burgers! C’mon, people! Something that ranks higher than a sub-Digsby 5.3 on the IMDB!

So I’m hungry now. I’m leaving to get some food with Mrs. Jason.

~ Jason