Okay, here's the deal. Arnold Schwarzenegger has become Hollywood's Emperor Without Any Clothes. Like the fabled nekkid monarch, nobody in his court will point out his shortcomings because he's too powerful and successful. The thinking must be, "With a body like his, it's perfectly acceptable to walk down main street in his birthday suit." To date it's been fine, but now, with Jingle All the Way, the Reigning Leader is marching proudly for his subjects, while dragging a long strip of toilet paper stuck between his buttcheeks.

When Arnold announced his decision to make Jingle, Queen Maria should've objected to his selection of this pathetic screenplay. When the Court Jester was whispering about Arnold's horrific acting and the lack of a competent direcor, someone should have put his wisecracks on a loudspeaker. And when the marketing bishops ordered up a truckload of TurboMan dolls for toy stores the world over, the Village Barber should've been called in to administer leeches.

But, alas, no such objections were ever raised. And Nude Arnold marched onward to produce one of the low points of his film career -- lodged somewhere in the ranks of 1993's Last Action Hero and his debut disaster Hercules in New York.

The premise is pure Hollywood -- an undependable dad goes on a Christmas Eve quest to find a sold-out doll and fulfill a promise for his young son. But in the hands of screenwriter Randy Kornfield, this paint-by-numbers plot leaves a lot of digits uncovered. From the start, we could care less for Arnold's furniture executive Howard Langston, who first appears in the plot double-talking to his customers and putting his balance sheet ahead of his son's karate competition. Throughout, all of Langston's troubles are of his own making, and we're left feeling more empathy for our own cola-filled bladder than for Arnold's wooden protagonist.

Even when circumstances allow Langston to get the toy, it's purely through accidental happenstance -- not his own efforts -- that he achieves his goal. Subsequent scenes are as predictable as the outcome of a Dream Team basketball game, and we're left mouthing the punchlines to the so-called jokes while stifling a parade of yawns. If Kornfield were submitting Jingle for a Screenwriting 101 class, he'd deserve nothing higher than a low D.

In Jingle All the Way, we really get to see just how bad an actor Arnold can be without the guiding hands of a James Cameron or an Ivan Reitman. Director Brian Levant hangs the Muscled One out to dry, with nary a hint of how to make himself believable or sympathetic. The most emotion we get from Arnold is a nervous fear that his custom-made Humvee might be idling a bit rough.

Phil Hartman and Sinbad, two of the funniest guys in the biz, offer us an isolated chuckle or two, but even their massive talents are hard-pressed to find comedic gifts in this unfilled stocking. Empty boxes are also under the tree for Rita Wilson and the rest of the expensive cast, including Robert Conrad, James Belushi and Martin Mull.

The ringworm that is Jingle All the Way really gets under your skin in the anti-climactic finish, as Arnold flies around in fast-motion on an out-of-control jet-pack. The slapstick pacing and comic book feel come out of nowhere, and we're left to search the theater floor for our discarded soda cup in hopes that a drop of melted ice will help us swallow this unholy slop.

And when all is said and done, we're left with one conclusion: Emperor Arnold needs a change of clothes.