By CHRIS PACKHAM
Well, here we are, a day after the New York Post's Page Six was forced to angrily retracta fake story based on a bad tip that Michelle Obama had stayed at the fancy and mythical Waldorf-Astoria elf lodge, where she ordered up the "lobster and caviar" via a magickal summoning called "room service." And then it turns out that the Republican National Committee actually in real-life spent $150,000 to outfit the filthy Alaskan Palin family in their richie executive branch disguises.
According to Politico, the RNC listed the expenditures in the September monthly financial disclosure report as "campaign accessories" under "itemized coordinated expenditures," where campaigns generally list stuff like direct mail and telephone costs. Payments were made to fancy Barney's New York, fancy Bloomingdale's New York and fancy Atelier, perhaps also in New York. Because, you guys, you can't shop at Fashion Bug in the heart of "real America" like some kind of "Joe Six-Pack Hobo" unless you're running for President of Osh Kosh B'Gosh. The best part is that because the clothes are owned by the RNC, they have to be returned and will be donated to charity, winding up in the wardrobe of some big-city illegal Mexican immigrant on welfare who will wear them down to the abortion clinic.
After the jump, one single hilarious link, plus the results of this year's Plog corporate retreat. Click here, or on this team-building clip art Faysal included as part of his team-building PowerPoint presentation:
The annual Plog corporate retreat: I've said mean things about a lot of people — the strict constructionists, Operation Rescue, Batman fans, Rapture-anxious evangelicals, the creepy busybodies who pretend to be 14-year-old girls on the internet to lure the predators — but here's a pro-tip for attracting really angry comments: Say mean stuff about dead author Ayn Rand or boring boring boring boring National Public Radio. I guess their related constituencies are less accustomed to getting pushed around by snotty bitches on the internet. All I know is that I am an A$$HOLE!!! (no argument there) and a TOOL OF MAINSTREAM REPUBLICANS!!!! (what?)
In accordance with my antisocial personality spectrum diagnosis, I'd like to point out the most hysterically funny thing I've read in weeks, sent along by Megan as a precious, precious token of our friendship. I am prepared for comment retaliation by fatties and Clerks fans, because dude, he broke a fucking toilet with his big fat ass. But thanks to this week's Plog corporate retreat, I've done a lot of important soul-searching and whatnot from inside the comforting security of a plush Sumo wrestling fat-suit regarding my world-view and my attitudes toward other people and stuff.
Attendance is mandatory, but we only have to go once a year. Plog shift supervisor Faysal Alkhaiwani and Doris the bitch floor manager, who told me I could come pick up my iPod from her desk at the end of today's shift, actually rented a decent venue for all the team-building exercises this year, down at the Overland Park Marriott. My favorite exercise was called HOT LAVA, in which we had to jump back and forth from one conference table to another without touching the floor because it was HOT LAVA. But when the manager at the Marriott caught us, he made us stop, and now The Pitch might actually have to pay to buy the Marriott a new walnut conference table because Justin was wearing soccer shoes with cleats, like he always does.
So instead, we learned "cooperation" via the well-known team building exercise in which you offer various imaginary incentives to coworkers to perform disgusting tasks. For instance: "Would you drink a whole glass of warm snot for ONE MILLION DOLLARS?" Result: There is not one single Pitch employee who would not drink a glass of warm snot for one million dollars. We were supposed to play a game called "ZOOM" in which your team creates a unified narrative from a series of drawings on flash cards, but it devolved into a game of "THERE'S YOUR DAD," in which you point out smelly hoboes and morbidly obese Rascal pilots to your coworkers and say, "Look, there's your dad." We rounded off the morning with "Light as a feather, stiff as a board" and "Bloody Mary," until we were kicked en masse out of the women's lav.
Plog management let the Colonel do the catering at this year's retreat. I don't eat a whole lot of chicken, so my lunch of eight biscuits and a large tub of mashed potatoes resulted in an insulin-spiking carb-high followed by a catastrophic glucose crash that rendered me unconscious for the rest of the afternoon, during which my coworkers apparently shut off all the lights and frenched. But the morale and the esprit d'corps has been really high ever since, so I guess it was all money well-spent.