CURRENT ISSUE 04/01/03 Front Page Weekly Features Advice from Strangers Ain't That America? Alaric Musing With Mitch Moth's Diary Movie Corner Info Archives Crap Shop Who's at Fault? Contact Us! Aye, mateys! Get you some Daily Probe booty!	Daily Probe Movie Review by Faith McDonald Accounting Coordinator Sprint Canada    Basic Rating: 1 star (out of 5) Another week, another stupid Monday night screening, another chance at financial security dashed against the rocks. As my "Faith"ful (get it?) readers know, Mondays are Broker Night at the Hungry Crocodile, when all the hot, financially secure brokers from TD Price Waterhouse go for their weekly pub night. But since I'm at these stupid movies every Monday now, I wind up missing them, and my bitch best friend Wendy (who I'm pretty sure is bulimic, too) winds up scoring with all these platinum-card wielding Adonises. (Speaking of "Faith"ful, trust me ... Faith would LIKE to be full right now, if you know what I mean ... I won't say how long it's been, but let's just say it's been about 3 years, 4 months, and 21 days since I've had to break out the "guest" toothbrush.) Anyhoo, I figured this week, I'd make an effort to get down there anyway, if for no other reason than to show these guys that there's more to life than fit, large-breasted twinkies who look like Renee Zellweger. Hopefully, by the time I got there, she'd be drunk on bought-for-her drinks and making an ass out of herself. But of course, it wasn't to be. My arrival wasn't the event it should have been. That bitch Wendy was holding court with about six really hot and well-off-looking brokers, doing that whole cute-cheekbones-and-dimples bullshit thing she does. And, as usual, I got ignored because I don't look like a total porn star. Just because I'm smart, attractive in an attainable way, and don't shy away from Cookie Dough Dynamo ice cream, all of a sudden I'm second fiddle next to Miss Make-Me-Laugh-So-My-Tits-Jiggle. And to top it off, the movie sucked ass. If it wasn't for the very cute John Travolta (Danny! I love you Danny!) it would have been a total write-off. He plays this DEA guy who's called in to interrogate some hunky soldier who's accused of killing his drill sergeant and a bunch of other hunky soldiers in his platoon. The hunky guy isn't talking at first, but then as Travolta and this butchy-looking chick work on him, all these confusing stories come out. And to top it off, the only other survivor (Giovanni Ribisi, who showed his weiner in SubUrbia) is telling totally different stories. Then it gets all confusing and stuff, and it turns out that there's drugs involved or something, and everyone's story changes ... I mean, why can't movies just tell a story start-to-finish? Ally McBeal did it every week for five years! So I'm telling this loser at the bar (who was cute, and works at TD Price Waterhouse as well, but only in the mailroom. Puh-leez.) over a bunch of tequila coolers (which I had to pay for myself) how much the movie sucked, and he says, "Well, what do you expect from a Scientologist?" I didn't know what he meant, so he told me that Scientology is this weird religion. Apparently, Travolta AND the very hump-worthy Tom Cruise are Scientologists. He said it was almost like a kind of pyramid scheme, and the only way you can get to higher "levels" is by pumping a bunch of money into it. That got me to thinking ... Scientology has a) hot guys, and b) hot rich guys ... and as it turns out ... c) the women in Scientology are overweight, washed-up has-beens like Kirstie Alley. Next week, I think I'm going to skip the Croc and go to a Scientology mixer. From what I can tell, it's a fountain of rich, good-looking guys and dumpy women. I'll be able to land one of them for sure! Wendy's going to be soooo jealous ...
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