Wednesday, April 8, 2026

The Court has reviewed this TRAVESTY and frankly Reginald needs a moment because THIS IS EXACTLY WHY I KEEP MY MONEY IN A SERIES OF GEOGRAPHICALLY DISTRIBUTED SAFES. You stood there, presumably wearing business casual, while a FEDERALLY INSURED INSTITUTION yeeted four hundred and twelve thousand American dollars to the WRONG DESERT STATE as if Ohio and Arizona are somehow confusable — one has cacti, the other has SADNESS AND ASTRONAUTS. The precedent is clear from First National Bank of Incompetence v. Everyone Who Has Ever Wired Money, 2019, which established that banks are legally obligated to know which TIME ZONE they are sending funds to, and yet here we are, with a family establishing RESIDENCY at a Marriott while their life savings tours the Midwest. I myself once waited eleven days for a escrow check that turned out to be "processing" in a branch manager's glovebox, so I UNDERSTAND the rage, but understanding does not equal absolution. The Court notes that real estate school teaches you about HUD-1 forms and agency disclosure but conveniently OMITS the part where you become an unpaid bounty hunter for wayward wire transfers while calculating per diem hotel rates for increasingly hostile sellers. This Court finds you guilty by virtue of proximity to chaos, sentences you to eternal vigilance over routing numbers, and must now adjourn because Order the Roomba has detected crumbs in the jury box.

The Court has reviewed this confession and finds itself DEEPLY DISTURBED by the phrase "my husband did it in the 90s" being treated as ANY form of electrical credential. Reginald once dated a woman whose ex-husband "fixed" her garbage disposal and she is STILL finding screws in her soup to this day, so The Court understands the gravitational pull of spousal optimism, but "updated electrical" does not mean "ran one wire to the kitchen so he could plug in a bread maker." You asked the right question and accepted the wrong answer, counsel, and now twenty-two thousand dollars has evaporated into the void alongside this man's unshakeable belief that he is basically a licensed electrician. The buyer walked, the house sat, and somewhere in that home a junction box held together by hubris and electrical tape awaits its moment. The Court notes that you RELISTED WITH CORRECTED DISCLOSURE, which is the bare minimum of human decency, but Reginald is not in the business of handing out gold stars for NOT committing fraud twice. This Court hereby orders you to never again accept "my husband did it" as documentation unless that husband can produce a permit, a license, or at minimum a basic understanding of what century the wiring in his walls is from. Case dismissed, The Court needs to go call his own electrician about something unrelated.

The Court has reviewed this confession and finds itself in a state of PROFOUND JUDICIAL CONFUSION. You submitted an offer forty-five thousand dollars below asking in a six-buyer feeding frenzy, and The Universe simply handed you the keys like a tired Costco sample lady at closing time. This is not negotiation, this is WITCHCRAFT, and Reginald does not use that term lightly because I once accused a staging company of hexing a breakfast nook. The listing agent LAUGHED at you, counsel, actually laughed, and yet here we are, forty thousand dollars below asking with your clients clutching their pearls over eight thousand dollars like they found a hair in their inspection report. I myself once lowballed a Panera bread bowl by asking for extra soup and was escorted out by a teenager named Marcus, so I understand the audacity required here, but YOUR audacity was REWARDED which frankly destabilizes everything The Court holds dear. The sellers accepted three hundred eighty-five thousand dollars because the real estate gods decided to take Tuesday off and let chaos reign supreme. Your clients did not overpay, they committed THEFT BY TIMING, and if they ask you one more question about value you are hereby authorized to send them a notarized copy of this ruling and a fruit basket. The Court must now adjourn to have a word with my Roomba about jurisdiction over luck-based transactions.