Quick Quiz! Who can design a successful maxi-pad campaign?
A.: Only a woman.
B.: Only a menstruating woman.
C.: Anybody with a talent for advertising.
Allie goes back to the well of this incredible Passions storyline I've created in my mind, where her father was kidnapped by guerillas when she was young and this gave her amnesia and all she can recall of him is the sound of Grape-Nuts crunching. Which, I freely admit to being an ass if Allie lost her father young, but I don't think so, because she was a child gymnast -- a great one -- and gave it up because she was homesick, and that kind of fills in the blanks anyway. So she floats the idea of "somebody that looks like our [my] father, passing the Grape-Nuts down to somebody [me] in their thirties." I'm just joking about the daddy-issues stuff, really, because she seems very together in a lot of ways, but it's edited so strangely that it provokes a "Put your stuff away, Allie" kind of reaction. Actually, it's probably because I watch too much Starting Over. (Or possibly because all I can remember about my own father is the smell of gunpowder and revolution, or something, but I'm not supposed to talk about all that mess in public.) Everybody goes nuts about the idea, and it's the usual suspects for the overdone enthusiasm: Michael, Sean, Andrea. Brent's not feeling it, of course. Andrea interviews that she helped refine the idea out of Allie's personal psychodrama by redirecting it to "the next generation." Tammy writes it down and adds yet more words: "Try the next generation of Grape-Nuts -- finally, a cereal for everybody!" They applaud themselves, even though it doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense. Like Allie's father was consciously denying her the taste of revolut...er, Grape-Nuts, until she proved herself on the international gymnastics stage. Ivanka asks who's presenting (Why, Tammy and Sean, the stumbler and the mumbler, of course), and asks Brent of what he is in charge.
Flash Quiz! Your self-obsessed predilection for thinking everything in the universe is an elaborate plot to validate your self-hatred comes up in a boardroom meeting. Do you:
A.: Do a little fake-smile monkey-dance for the Viceroy, because a win for the team means you get to stay, and it's frankly embarrassing that you're being so brutally marginalized?
B.: Passive-aggressively "tell the truth" in such a way as to beg for the Viceroy's sympathy? Even though a small child would be able to deduce that she has none in her?