With a budget fatter than Meat Loaf, more big-screen talent than a Beverly Hills eating disorder clinic, and more shameless self-promotion than an entire Will Smith song, the film “King Arthur” is on its way.

And while it looks to be no better than 1995’s “Braveheart” without the historical basis, or “Xena: Warrior Princess” donning a bigger budget or a hearty kick to the skull, it seems a foregone conclusion that at some point, probably when you least expect it, you will see this movie.

Why? Because epic battle movies are fun, and because Keira Knightley is able to do the two things that medieval battle film fans most treasure: kill people and have breasts. And if the photos of her from the flick, which I was forced to stare at for long periods of time to research this piece, are any indication, she does these two things very well.

But there are flaws in the movie’s promotion. Subtle things that only a man with no life would take issue with. Luckily, I am such a man.

The movie is touted as “The real story of King Arthur.” A heady boast, to be certain. I can imagine all the historical research the movie’s screenwriters must have done, going over archeological records and ancient tomes, to find the truth about such a controversial historical figure.

One problem.

HE ISN’T BLOODY REAL!

He’s a myth! A legend! Like Britney Spears’ virginity! Even the most sophisticated theories about Arthur’s supposed existence are tenuous, at best, generally being limited to “History has shown that, in medieval times, there was a man named Arthur, generally called Arty or ‘Stinky’ by his friends, and he found a stick in a river that he used to beat up the Irish.”

Arthur, for those of you who aren’t intimately familiar with the works of Geoffrey of Monmouth, reputedly was raised as a stable boy, but was promoted to King due to his ability to pull enchanted swords out of rocks.

He had a round table built for him and his knights, which was famous because, apparently, things being round was a new concept in the Middle Ages.

He and his chums later set off to find the Holy Grail, despite the fact that they neither wore fedoras or were previously in Star Wars.

Look, lets say I make something up. One night, after a full bottle of Hawkeye Vodka, I create a man named “Jimmy Thunderpants,” and scribble down some legends about how he pulled a live chicken out of his ass and routed enemy forces with it.

Okay, now let’s say that 100 years from now, somebody, probably Jerry Bruckheimer’s embalmed head, makes a movie about Mr. Thunderpants, featuring some hot young starlet as “Nancy Pulltab,” the woman he loved.

And then he started marketing it as “The TRUE story of Jimmy Thunderpants,” complete with a dramatic, slow-motion depiction of the chicken pulling, with powerful instrumental music blazing in the background.

And people who see the flick say afterwards, “I never knew that about the life of Jimmy Thunderpants. He must have been a great warrior.”

I’m sorry, but the whole thing makes me want to vomit like an Olsen twin after a turkey dinner.

At least we can hope that the film is accurate to the legend, and not a bulked-up version of Kevin Sorbo’s “Kull the Conqueror.”

But, then, if it is true, audiences will have to deal with Clive Owen, who plays Arthur, sleeping with whomever plays his sister, and being eventually killed by his incestuous, bastard son, Modred.

A good family movie, no doubt.