4/8/95

How To Sell

A product of the imagination gives birth to the Pog.

    The brightest minds of Flopovich Corp. took their seats. The sales director leaned over to the marketing director. "I hear we've got something big cooking. A real market-thumper," he whispered.
    "Yeah, yeah," said the second, in his usual way proving that two positives make a negative.
    Flopovich rose, and, except for a barely audible grumble from the director of development, the room fell silent. The CEO pumped a billow from his cigar, a favorite trick he learned from his grandfather, old Poppa Flopovich, to envelop himself with a mystical blue haze. No one dared cough.
    "Zilch," he thundered. He paused for effect. "Nineteen-Ninety-Zilch. We haven't had a big one in five years, and I'm still signing paychecks. You think I keep you around because I like you? Or perhaps you've forgotten my motto."
    The director of finance sighed. The 3M Motto. In unison, everyone chanted: "Make Me Money!"
    "Last year you assured me every Israeli would buy a laser-powered sunflower-seed cracker. Did that make me money? The year before that, every child on Earth was going to buy a Flopovich javelin. 'A 20-year craze,' you promised. Sales? Zilch! Anybody gonna tell me what we should do with our stock of a hundred-thousand javelins? Huh?"
    The head of research winced. The Big F was never going to let him forget that one.
    "And who--" Flopovich glared at the vice-president in charge of new products "-- was the yo-yo who thought of collecting all the notes from the crevices of the Western Wall and grinding them into mulch to sell as Holy Grout? Did that make me money? And I won't even mention the Clip-On Hairy Chest, the Battery-Operated Shofar or the Quicksand Lifejacket, which we patented in 120 countries." The CEO paused again. "This will not do!" he bellowed, and pounded a fist on his specially-designed balsamwood lectern that shatters to great effect. "Remember my Double-D Dictum!"
    "Give Me Dividends or Give Me Death!" they chanted fearfully.
    The big boss paused. The chief accountant wanted to cry.
    Then, unexpectedly, a little fellow got up. "Pee-Pee," he said quietly.
    "What?!" Flopovich roared.
    "The Persky Principle," Persky explained. He smiled gently. "And the Pog."
    Flopovich burst a vein. "Who are you, how'd you get in here... and what the devil is a Pog?"
    He gave everybody a business card: "Persky Promotions -- An International Success Since 1994."
    "The Pog," he said, "is what you call your Big One. Million-dollar profits in the first week. Half a billion in the time it takes to make a baby. It'll get your face on a postage stamp by the end of the decade."
    There was a collective gasp, the cigar smoke vanished, and everyone coughed.
    "The Pog is the world's final uninvented indispensible gadget: a Public Opinion Gauge. It will sell for no less than NIS 449.99. An executive version will go for upwards of three grand.
    "Nobody will get out of bed in the morning before consulting a Pog. The Pog will decipher the ever-changing public mood on any given subject. It will be equipped with IROs, or Influence Radius Options, to provide a super-accurate reading of the people in a room, in a neighborhood, city-wide, country-wide. Optional add-ons will give the owner specialized consensus readings, such as Wall Street brokers, policy-makers, market-targets. One may know, at the push of a button, what the neighbors think of the family that moved in across the street, if everybody in a restaurant likes the turtle soup, how diplomats would react to an invasion of Libya, if everyone at work would agree if you complained about the Histadrut, what the goyim think. Let me ask you, Mr. Flopovich: how have you managed to live without one?"
    The CEO paused before responding, not for effect, but because he didn't know what to say. "I'll take a dozen," he blurted. 
    "I'll keep that in mind," said Persky with a little smile, "after you've figured out how to make 'em."
    "The Pog doesn't exist yet?"
    "Product of my imagination. I only thought of it on the way over here. But never mind: it's the principle of the thing."
    "The Persky Principle?"
    "Precisely." The odd little fellow snapped his attache case closed and put on his hat.
    "Hey, where are you going?" Flopovich hollered.
    "To work," Persky said, and vanished.

A COUPLE of days later, a Lima journalist, in the middle of a lengthy interview, asked the Nicaraguan tourism minister if he had yet acquired a made-in-Israel Pog. He said no. Naturally, a Tel Aviv newspaper picked up the story and ran it along with a "no comment" from the Israeli ambassador to Peru. A follow-up report revealed that the opposition leader in Honduras claimed to have a Pog, but this was disputed by an anonymous source inside the CIA. The next day, a reliable source in Cuba, who requested anonymity, said a shipload of Pogs was due to arrive from North Korea. The White House spokeswoman, responding to a question from a reporter, said the issue would have to be studied before she could comment further.
    In Jerusalem, the Industry and Trade Ministry admitted it had received inquiries from South America about "a certain Israeli invention," but a spokesman refused to confirm or deny that "an unnamed Israeli company" had been issued an export permit. "We wish to assure the citizens of Israel that we're on to this. We wouldn't want a Pog to end up in enemy hands," he added.
    Shortly thereafter, a newspaper ad announced that "after decades of development, the controversial Pog is now available to the Israeli public at exclusive outlets." An investigative columnist then alleged that a black market was snapping up Pogs even before they reached the stores. On the same day on page one of a rival paper, under the headline "What is a Pog?", a fellow named Shimshon Persky described the mystery gadget.
        One morning, at a strategic Jerusalem street corner, a billboard appeared depicting a haredi man embracing a sexy blonde woman. Her shoulders were bare. At the bottom were the words: "I'd do anything to get my hands on her Pog."
    In no time a haredi riot broke out. The police were called to prevent hotheads from burning down the billboard. That brought out the secular activists waving placards. A feminist demonstration formed across the street condemning the exploitation of women for the commercialization of Pogs. At a mosque in Hebron, a wild rumor broke out that Israeli soldiers were equipped with Pogs and were using them to commit unspeakable atrocities against pregnant women and children. The Palestinians stoned some settlers who fought back until the army arrived, lobbing teargas and firing rubber bullets.
    That evening, at an emergency press conference televised around the world, the prime minister urged that tempers cool. "I don't know what the fuss is about," he said, "the Pog doesn't even exist."
    That convinced everyone that it did. The leader of the Likud called his own press conference and sneered at the prime minister. "Just because he doesn't have one doesn't mean it doesn't exist. As if my own personal Pog is just a pile of chopped liver. What's he going to say next, that Kiryat Arba doesn't exist?"
    The president of the United States then called the prime minister of Israel. "Either get me one," he said tersely, "or ban the damn things."
    Somehow, the conversation was taped and then televised. Israelis were enraged. The Knesset issued a statement insisting that the tape was a fake, and assured that the nation's closest ally was not colonializing the commerce of the Jewish State.
    That convinced everyone that it was.
    As if that wasn't bad enough, the leader of the PLO was then quoted as saying the Israeli foreign minister had given him a gift of a gold-plated Pog, which he wore next to his pistol. The foreign minister swore that he hadn't, which convinced everyone that he had.

THROUGHOUT FLOPOVICH Corp., the cry went up: "FP!" Every employee knew what that meant: Find Persky.
    Ultimately, a sharp-eyed mailroom clerk noticed a man on TV answering to Persky's description. He was leading a Pro-Pog demonstration in front of the United Nations. A private detective in New York was hired, and Persky was flown back to Israel.
    Flopovich assembled his executive staff. One director leaned over to another. "Do --" he started to say.
    "SHADDAP!" Flopovich erupted.    
    The place remained absolutely silent. Then the door opened, and Shimshon Persky was ushered in. He removed his hat, put down his attache case and smiled gently. "Good morning," he said.
    Flopovich was building up a good fog of mystique, pumping at his cigar for all he was worth.
    "If you don't mind," Persky said, quite pleasantly, "I must ask you not to smoke."
    Wordlessly, Flopovich put out his cigar. Mindlessly, he slumped into his chair. Persky stood up.
    "So," he said, "have you figured out how to make a Pog yet?"
    Flopovich, aware that his mouth was agape but unable to do anything about it, just shook his head.
    "No matter," Persky said nonchalantly. "You could've outsold Coke and Panasonic put together this year. But we've only just started."
    "Started? I'm finished! Wiped out!" Flopovich croaked.
    "Not quite. If you hurry, we can still make that million a week, like I promised. First: make this announcement."
    Persky handed him a press release:

URGENT BULLETIN
FROM THE CREATORS
OF THE POG

We regret to announce that we are obligated to discontinue production of the Pog.
    This was a most painful and difficult decision, because of the phenomenal financial rewards the Pog could have brought our company and our country.
    However, social responsibility must be considered before economic gain. That is our policy.
    We were deeply saddened to see our treasured Pogs become the source of international tension. To our distress, the Pog even threatened the Middle East peace process, which we deem more important than personal profit.
    It is a bitter irony that we created the Pog to make the world a better place for all, but that we have to sacrifice the project for the very same reason.
    However, in response to rampant global demand, we are proud to announce a commemorative edition of the classic Flopovich Javelin. Each one will contain 5 grams of reconstituted Perskitanium, the rare mineral that made the Pog what it was.
    We ask only this: in the spirit of the Pog and the benefits to Mankind it was meant to bring, we pray that each and every Flopovich Javelin contribute -- in some way -- to peace on Earth and the betterment of our civilization.

    The Big F pointed his squashed cigar butt at odd little Persky. "You," he said, finding his voice, "you did all this? You got the world buzzing about Flopovich? All this, just to sell a hundred thousand javelins?"
    Persky grinned.
    "Why?"
    "I'm new in the business. I wanted to see what I could get away with." He put on his hat.  "And," he said, patting his attache case, "I wanted to see what this Pog I invented could do."