In honor of Academy Awards week, the question came up, “What’s your favorite movie?” By “favorite,” I’m assuming the definition found in Downey’s Third Revised International Dictionary: a Frankly Alarming and Vexatious Opportunity to Realize I’m Tacky beyond Explanation.

And the winner is: Mars Attacks!

A regrettable and embarrassing choice. Smarter people than me have already pointed out that Mars Attacks! is not so much a parody of a bad movie, as it is—a bad movie. But my copy is worn out at the spot where the dove of peace gets blown out of the sky. This is the essence of my Mars Attacks! experience. In other—better—spoofs, I am distracted by witty dialog, clever plot and inspiring acting. No danger of that here. Jack Nicholson and a truckload of other heavyweights were wasted in this movie, so I skip right to the good parts. Martians blowing up the Taj Mahal. Skewering the president. Martians in their underwear, reading Playboy.

I fein disgust at the sight of Sarah Jessica Parker’s head attached to the body of her pooch. But isn’t that what I’ve secretly wanted for all the snotty girls with great clothes, who were mean to me in high school?

I’m not proud of myself. I don’t want to like Mars Attacks! I would prefer to go on record extolling the genius of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, or Citizen Kane. But I’m as much a captive of the Martians as Pierce Brosnan was. It makes me feel like a kid again, building a house with Lincoln Logs, just so I can knock it down.

The best (or maybe worst) part of Mars Attacks! is the after-effect. For days after watching it, I announce my entry into every room in the house with, “Ack. Ack ack. We come in peace.”