Power Love

Your definitive resource. That's all, just your definitive resource.

03 August 2013


OK. Here's the deal: you don't make your quota, we send in Quota Tron. You don't wanna meet Quota Tron. He's big. He's wide. He's 387.4 pounds of corrugated steel with a space helmet head, frying pan hands, and concrete block feet. He carries Thor's hammer. Because he TOOK THOR'S HAMMER AWAY FROM THOR.

To recap, we care talking about a very large entity who does not have opposable thumbs, relieivng a GOD of his HAMMER.

You don't wanna meet Quota Tron.

Quota Tron visits once a fiscal quarter. A printout of names is taped to his frying pan hands. Then Quota Tron stomps through the cubicle farm, matching the printout names with the nameplate names. You will know Quota Tron is coming because his concrete block feet are motorized but ungreased and therefore quite loud and also, we have cheap carpet that exacerbates sound. By the way, we have heard every one of those personal phone calls you made on company time and we're holding those against you.

When Quota Tron matches a printout name with a nameplate name, he simply bops that person on the head with Thor's hammer. Usually he bops multiple people on the head in rapid succession, much like Wack-a-Mole, a game Quota Tron is proficient at. And I mean, like, Olympic-level proficient.

After Quota Tron wack-a-moles you with Thor's hammer, you will disintegrate into the floor, come out underneath the floor, recompose into your pre-wack-a-moled by Quota Tron form, and be strapped to a gurney by our Nobel Prize-winning team of scientists who have a passion for Go Fish and eat only spineless sea creatures, usually for breakfast.

These scientists will unplug your frontal lobe from your cerebral cortex, or something, and reconnect the wires in some complicated and highly technical way in accordance with an algorithm which is top secret and which the Russian government is so hot to get a hold of they've offered to give us Siberia as a "gift" in exchange for the algorithm but, c'mon, no.

Anyhoodle, once your dippy brain is reconfigured, you will be A SELLING MACHINE, and at this point, you will be shot through a tube, back to the cubicle farm, where a headset will be permanently attached to your ear. At this point you will become aware of an overwhelming craving for spineless sea creatures (glitch in the algorithm) and a deep need to make quota. Three calls into your new day, your memory will be erased of all previous events and your life will be complete. You're welcome.