Regina’s a weird girl. She’s mouthy and adorably, confidently casual in her job as a movie theater usher. She’d rather shoot arcade space invaders in “Tempest,” trying to beat a stranger — DMK — whose initials keep creeping onto the list of top ten scores, than troll the theaters for “weirdos carving up the seats” as she’s pelted with Dots and Milk Duds. And while the world outside the theater is acting like tonight’s the night of Y2K, the Rapture and the new “Harry Potter” movie premiere all at once, Regina would rather throw a comforter on the ground of the projection booth and cuddle with her boyfriend.

So why are people out holding signs and hooting like they just announced the return of the McRib?

I’m glad you asked. The campy voiceover explains: “Since before recorded time, it had swung through the universe in an elliptical orbit so large that its very existence remained a secret of time and space. But now, in the last few years of the twentieth-century, the visitor was returning. The citizens of Earth would get an extra Christmas present this year, as their planet orbited through the tail of the comet. Scientists predicted a light show of stellar proportions. Something not seen on Earth for 65 million years. Indeed, not since the time that the dinosaurs disappeared, virtually overnight.”

Yes, it’s “Night of the Comet,” (starring Catherine Mary Stewart, the girlfriend from “The Last Starfighter”). CGI is a newborn baby in this film, and when the doctor slaps its butt, the sky turns pink and black leopard print, kind of like a typical polluted Phoenix sunset, to symbolize the comet’s tail choking us with dinosaur-killing dust. The next day, Regina and her sister (who happened to spend the night in a shed, avoiding the dust) survey the Santa Fe-colored damage and decide to head to what seems like the only remaining source of human life: the local pop station, where a snappy broadcast about this week’s top 20 rolls on interrupted — but turns out to be just a recording.

Younger Samantha (Kelli Maroney) takes over at the mic: “This is Samantha Belmont, one-third owner of the Greater Los Angeles Basin, speaking … Most of you guys had finals this week? Huh. Later. They’re history. They’re canceled. The legal drinking age is now 10. But you will need ID. Let’s be real.”

Next, they (and Hector, a young, good guy truck driver who has also holed up at the station) head to an armed forces reserve center for weapons. “The MAC-10 submachine gun was practically designed for housewives,” Regina explains. (Frustrated when the gun later jams, Samantha mutters, “See? This is the problem with these things. Daddy would have gotten us Uzis.”)

The following is a compliment: The language is tilted. The characters can be stilted. And the film’s creators binged on genres like a bulimic hoping to vomit up a classic: It’s post-apocalyptic sci fi! It’s fast-zombie horror! It’s a neon-lit 80s spandex romance! It’s a ragtag buddy adventure movie! It’s a government conspiracy aimed at sucking the blood of the youth to avoid comet damage!

However dated it is, it’s still more hilarious and engaging than that $115 million George Lucas movie about trade routes and the tragic effects of combining Botox and Valium — and the sisters are up against a government bunker full of smarty-pantsuits hoping enough kid blood will keep them from turning sunken-eyed and fuzzy-headed with sickness.

“I don’t know,” one child says. “My parents told me never to breathe anything from strangers.”

The whole thing is absurd as the world would be if you and 10 other people in your area code were left alive after a disaster. You might say that your friend, who was flunking algebra? At least she doesn’t have to tell your parents now. You might ransack the evening gowns at the mall. The sunny, still-electrified, presumably still refrigerated world and all its spoils would be there for the taking of the clever and brave.

Just one person’s talents could be useful at a time like this: DMK.

Ashley O’Dell reviews movies that aren’t in theaters anymore.