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shrinking
in their seats
under the weight of my stare. They were a motley crew, all right. There was no
denying that. It was a miracle that any of these clowns had even passed their
broker’s exam.
Finally, one of them broke the silence.
“There are too many objections,” he whined. “I’m getting hit with them left and
right. I can’t even get a pitch off!”
“Me too,” added another. “There are 
thousands
of objections. I can’t get a pitch
off either. It’s a lot harder than with penny stocks.”
“Exactly,” added a third one. “I’m getting smashed with objections.” He let out a
deep sigh. “I vote for penny stocks too!”
“Same here,” added another. “It’s the objections; they don’t let up.” The rest of
the Strattonites began nodding their heads in agreement, as they muttered their
collective feelings of disapproval under their breath.
But I wasn’t the least bit fazed. With the exception of that one reference about
“voting”—
as if this were a fucking democracy!—
I’d heard it all before.
In fact, since the day we’d made the switch, the brokers had been complaining
about the increased number of objections and how difficult they were to overcome.
And while there was some degree of truth to it, it wasn’t 
nearly
as difficult as they
were making it out to be, not even 
close. There’re thousands of objections?
Give me a
break!
For a moment, I considered taking immediate action against the rabble-rousing
Strattonite who’d mentioned the V-word, but I decided against it.
It was time to call these guys out on their bullshit, once and for all. “Fair
enough,” I said, with a hint of sarcasm. “Since you guys are 
so
sure about these
thousands
of objections, I want to list every single one of them right now.” And,
with that, I turned to the whiteboard and grabbed a black Magic Marker off the
ledge of the stand and raised it to the center of the board. “Go ahead!” I continued.
“Start calling them all out, and then I’ll rattle off all the answers for you, one by
one, so you can see how easy this is. Come on, let’s go!”
The Strattonites began to shift uncomfortably in their seats. They looked utterly
dumbfounded, like a family of deer caught in the headlights, but not nearly as cute.
“Come on,” I pressed. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
“
‘I want to think about it!’
” one finally yelled.
“Good,” I replied, and I wrote the objection on the whiteboard. “He wants to
think about it. That’s a great start. 
Keep going
.”
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“He wants you to call back!” shouted another.
“Okay,” I replied, writing that one down too. “Wants a call back. What else?”
“
‘Send me some information!’
”
“Okay, that’s a good one,” I remarked, jotting it down as well. “Keep going. I’ll
make it easy and we’ll shoot for a thousand. There’s only 997 to go.” I flashed them
a sarcastic grin. “It’s totally doable.”
“
‘It’s a bad time of year!’
” someone yelled.
“Good,” I shot back. “Keep going.”
“
‘I need to speak to my wife!’
” yelled another.
“Or his business partner!” shouted yet another.
“Excellent,” I said calmly, writing both objections down. “We’re making serious
progress here. There are only 994 to go. Keep going.”
“
‘I’m not liquid right now!’
” yelled a broker.
“Ah, now, 
that’s
good a one!” I said quickly, scribbling it down on the board.
“Although, you have to admit that you’re not getting that one quite as much since
we started calling rich people. Anyway, let’s keep going. There are only 993 to go.”
“
‘I only deal with my local broker!’
” one of them yelled.
“
‘I never heard of your firm before!’
” shouted another.
“
‘I’ve been burnt before!’
”
“
‘I don’t like the market right now!’
”
“
‘I’m too busy!’
”
“
‘I don’t trust you!’
”
“
‘I don’t make quick decisions!’
”
And on and on they went—calling out objection after objection, as I wrote each
one down, in progressively worse handwriting. By the time they were done, I’d
covered the entire surface of the board with every objection they could possibly
think of . . . which, at the end of the day, turned out to be only fourteen.
That’s right. There were only