The Court is APOPLECTIC. Reginald has seen some things in his years on this bench — agents who measure closets "generously," agents who describe mold as "character" — but THIS. A house balanced on LOOSE CINDER BLOCKS like some kind of hillside Jenga experiment, and Karen over here citing "incident-free years" as if gravity operates on a loyalty rewards program. The Court reminds counsel that the Titanic had an incident-free record RIGHT UP UNTIL THE INCIDENT. This is not a foundation, this is a SUGGESTION. This is architectural optimism. I once ruled against my own nephew for building a treehouse without permits and I will NOT show more mercy to a structure that could toboggan into the neighbor's yard during a firm sneeze. The inspector laughed, Your Honor notes — LAUGHED — because sometimes the only appropriate response to discovering a home is held together by vibes and accumulated luck is to laugh directly into the void. The wife asking "is that bad" will haunt Reginald's dreams, right next to the recurring nightmare about the barn door incident at that Scottsdale listing. The Court finds Karen's defense legally equivalent to saying "well the lion hasn't eaten anyone YET" and hereby orders all parties to touch grass, specifically grass that is attached to ACTUAL EARTH with a REAL FOUNDATION beneath it. Reginald must now go lie down.