Sunday, March 22, 2026

The Court has reviewed this confession and must pause to collect itself because TIMES NEW ROMAN IS THE MOST NEUTRAL FONT IN EXISTENCE and if that screams lowball vibes then Comic Sans must be a declaration of war. This agent stands before Reginald having enabled a client who has turned a simple residential transaction into some kind of canine-astrological hostage situation, and frankly The Court is APPALLED but also deeply familiar with this pain because I once had a client reject an offer because the buyer's middle name was "the same as her ex-husband's boat." You allowed this woman to weaponize Mercury retrograde against a perfectly good full-price offer while her demon dog patrols the property like a furry little escrow-destroying menace, and now you have the AUDACITY to come here seeking absolution when you should be seeking a spine. The twelve thousand dollar washer and dryer situation alone would be grounds for disbarment in the fictional jurisdiction where I hold very real power. However, The Court notes your willingness to surrender this listing to the nephew, which shows the kind of strategic cowardice that, while not admirable, is at least rational. Reginald must now adjourn to consult with The Council about whether fonts can legally constitute evidence of vibes, and the answer is going to be no but I need to check anyway.

The Court has reviewed this confession and frankly, Reginald needs a moment. FORTY-SEVEN HOMES. You learned their COFFEE ORDERS. You knew about the sister-in-law situation, which, based on the phrasing, sounds like it involved a Thanksgiving incident and possibly a slow cooker. And they left you for a man whose real estate license is younger than most yogurt in my refrigerator? This Court once spent eleven months courting a leather desk chair on Wayfair, reading reviews, measuring my chambers, only to have my wife purchase a "perfectly fine" chair from HomeGoods without consulting me or The Council, so I understand betrayal on a MOLECULAR LEVEL. The dishwasher was TOO QUIET? That is not a reason, that is a cry for help that you were not professionally obligated to answer. You do not need to start drinking, you need to delete that spreadsheet and then print it out and frame it as a monument to your own patience, and then delete the spreadsheet again. This Court sentences them to a lifetime of suspiciously quiet appliances and hereby declares this case CLOSED because Reginald has dinner reservations he cannot emotionally afford to miss.

The Court has reviewed this confession with the gravity it deserves, which is to say Reginald nearly choked on his morning coffee reading about a twenty-two-day licensee scaling a stranger's home like some sort of business-casual Spider-Man. You GOOGLED how to break into a house while standing in the driveway? In BROAD DAYLIGHT? The audacity! The search history alone constitutes evidence in what I am now calling "The State v. Your Browser History, 2024." And yet, The Court must acknowledge the resourcefulness here — you befriended a neighbor, you found the cat window, you WROTE TWO OFFERS while looking like you had just emerged from light combat. This reminds me of the time I attempted to adjudicate a boundary dispute at a Panera Bread and was asked to leave before I could render my verdict, which I maintain was legally binding despite what the shift manager claimed. Your broker's feedback about the blazer is technically correct but emotionally devastating, and I am entering a formal objection to it on your behalf. The cat window, for the record, has been subpoenaed as a character witness and declined to appear, which The Court finds SUSPICIOUS. Reginald rules that you demonstrated the exact unhinged determination this industry requires, and your sentence is to never tell the seller how you got in, ever, take it to your GRAVE.