Should we be worried about Jenny McCarthy? In the course of John Asher’s excruciatingly inept Dirty Love, the perpetual bimbo-ingenue has her breasts vomited on, wallows in a lake of her menstrual blood in a supermarket produce aisle, verbally abuses her sculpted-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life body, and is subjected to character assassination and/or sexual humiliation by a succession of prodigiously moussed dorks. And she wrote the screenplay. A kind of Sex and the City for L.A. bottom-feeders awash in clichéd, self-loathing misogyny that would make Howard Stern flinch, Dirty Love posits McCarthy as a fashion photographer coming to terms with romance after her model boyfriend gives her the heave-ho. A trio of pals ostensibly helps, including Carmen Electra, wielding the most embarrassing faux ghetto patois this side of the Hamptons. It’s impossible not to read this post-post-feminist atrocity as a cry for help, but to what end? The only possible rationale behind McCarthy’s painfully public self-immolation comes in her pathetic midfilm plea, “Please tell me I don’t smell like puke anymore.” God, I wish I could.