Editor’s Note: This week, Brian is busy shoving hotdogs into his mouth to prepare for Comic-Con. We asked how that would help, but he hung up on us, so I’m writing this week’s entry. Enjoy! Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema. You’re welcome. Our weekly dive into the gluttonous, saturated fat-saturated world of questionable movies has taken a detour into the educational this week, but it won’t be boring like a high school calculus class. It’ll be far worse than that. Why? Because we’ll be dissecting to death a piece of trash blowing about the graffiti-lined streets of some big city in the 1980s. We’ll rip out its guts, toss its sexual organs under a microscope, but then, yes then, we’ll get to its heart. And at its heart, we’ll learn the true meaning of dance. Or something. We will lift it up on the highest pedestal possible because Lorenzo Lamas will have taught us what it really means to keep it real. That’s right. This week’s unhealthy portion is the sweaty, 1984 breakdancing opus known as Body Rock.

Welcome back to Junkfood Cinema: we have come here to chew bubblegum and worship bad movies…and we’re all out of bubblegum. Pursuant to our mission statement, hastily written in soy sauce on the wrapper of a Zagnut bar, every week we will tempt your cerebral taste buds with all the most decadent, delicious treats it doesn’t want to admit it craves. We will slice, dice, chop, and screw the movie; basting it in its own faults along the way. But then it will lovingly bake in our hearts at 98.6° for 3-5 paragraphs until it becomes golden brown with our misguided affection. We will then transform metaphor into substance by offering an actual snack food item paired with the film in order that no part of your insides remain unaffected by this odious column. If losers are always whining about their best, we achieve the complete opposite effect by lauding the worst with a barbaric yawp. Today’s Blue Plate Special: The Rock