I walked out of “Transformers: Dark of the Moon,” staggering, dazed, perhaps even limping. The first two “Transformers” films existed solely to assault the senses, but “Dark of the Moon” pulverizes them. My neck was sore, my legs shook, my synapses fried. If nothing else, Michael Bay knows how to take you on a ride. This ride is empty, brainless and quite possibly evil — I am no expert in theology, but I’m pretty sure evil looks a lot like “Transformers 3” — but you cannot say it is not a ride. This ride punches you in the face, shreds your frontal lobes and repeatedly kicks you in the groin, it sucks out any sort of soul you might have remaining and it should probably be regulated by the FDA or the ATF (not sure which), but it is certainly a ride. It honestly felt like I’d just done 15 rounds with vintage Tyson. Pregnant women are advised against seeing “Transformers 3,” but then again, so is everybody. This film will make you feel like American entertainment is dead, spent, a vein no longer able to be tapped. It is nonstop sensation toward the ultimate, logical endpoint of death. Twelve hours after seeing the film, I am still mostly unable to feel my legs. Or love. Or hope. Anything, really. Also, I think the movie might have jarred loose one of my fillings.