Since I live in a rural community where the highlight of the 4th of July is, honestly, watching my vet blow up explosives in his backyard, I did exactly what Hollywood hoped I would this weekend: dragged my man to the movies.

I guess the blowing-stuff-up bug hadn’t left me at the vet’s backyard, because I had a hankering to see Wanted.  I got just what I paid for, too: stuff blew up. There were car chases, dudes-in-peril, knife fights and, best of all, a cubicle take-down. But of all the millions of dollars spent to engrain these scenes in my brain, the image that won’t leave me is Angelina Jolie eating a hamburger.

Here’s the scene: James McAvoy is getting the crap kicked out of him. He’s bleeding heavily through the nose. There are knives. Angelina is in the background, smirking, ostensibly chewing. Damn it! I can’t pay attention to the blood gushing all over the place because I’m waiting to see Angelina swallow her food.

She never does.

Now, I know the movie is supposed to be a bit ridiculous. I mean, an underground network of assassins run windsprints atop a subway car. Clearly it’s a comic book world. I buy that. But in no way can I buy a 5′7″, 95 lb woman pretending to enjoy a gigantic slab of red meat on a bun.

I guess we all have our limits. Mine, I discovered, start–and end–with anorexic chicks. Blood, gore, assassination attempts are all no problem. But when a grown female with the BMI of an adolescent famine victim acts like she’s not starving herself, my hackles go up.

Eat the damn burger, Angelina. Kill the bad guys on screen, not yourself.