OK, listen up! Now, ordinarily, Mitch and Murray practice a straightforward, nondenominational policy in their Christmas greetings, but this year we’re going to make an exception. This year it’s my call and we’re mixing it up with a motivational message for all you cocksuckers who couldn’t sell a bucket of water to a man on fire.
Message reads as follows: “Wishing you the very best this festive season”—open the card—"Now playtime’s over—get the fuck back to work." That’s Option A. Option B’s a little less punchy: “Season’s greetings from Mitch and Murray”—open the card—"What are you looking for? Another goddamn lead? Get out there and sell, you son of a bitch!" And then we come to my personal favorite, Option C: “Sales quota down? Never mind …”—open the card—"You’re fired. Hit the bricks, pal!"
What do you mean that doesn’t motivate you? “Psychologically speaking …”? Fucking “psychologically speaking”? Mitch and Murray don’t want salesmen who piss their pants every time head office drops them a note telling them they’re shit. They should know they’re shit! They should want to redeem themselves, get off their asses and sell something for once in their miserable lives. This is just a helpful reminder. If they can’t take a little friendly encouragement, then there’s the door—all they have to do is walk through it.
Enough, enough. Good points? Something positive? “Attention-grabbing”? All right, good. Attention’s important. If they’re not reading it, then we’re wasting time and money, and, last I checked, we’re not in the business of flushing cash down the fucking toilet. Yeah—you? “Friendly, family-oriented message …”?
You call yourself a motivational expert, you son of a bitch?
You want to go home, sit down to a turkey dinner with your wife and kids? A little eggnog? Watch It’s a Wonderful Life? FUCK YOU! Drop the leads, pack your bags, and hit the bricks! You got—what?—you got three good leads on your desk and you want to go home? You think you’re entitled to go home? You think you deserve it?
No, not you personally—that’s what they should be thinking.
Bunch of losers on the phone all day—"Can I interest you … Exclusive property … Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity"—selling dreams for cash and they come up empty every time. We’re indulging these sons of bitches when we should be firing their asses and making space on the lot. A salesman should be hungry, lean. Give me the guy who’d rather go on a sit than fill his face with pumpkin pie. What? No, it’s not lunchtime, you faggot.
OK, I don’t want to hear any more of this candy-ass “friendly message” shit. Constructive criticism. Tell me something important. Tell me what I want to hear.
“Prize giveaways”? Like what? More fucking steak knives? No, forget it. Prizes are for closers. The prize is you get to go home and tell your wife you still have a job to go to on January 1. Little Billy gets his train set and Daddy doesn’t default on the mortgage payments—that’s the fucking prize.
All right, settle down … How about this? It’s Christmas, so why don’t we at least try and keep it festive—a fucking tree. Yeah, a big fucking best-on-the-lot, conical-as-they-come fucking Christmas tree. We’ll even throw in some goddamn tinsel. And a fairy to go on top. Shouldn’t be a problem finding one in this office. Fuck it. Happy? Good. Get out of my sight.
Yeah, and a merry fucking Christmas to you too, pal.