Sunday, June 28, 2026

The Court is PHYSICALLY ILL. This tribunal has seen agents lie about square footage, has witnessed staging crimes that would make a Pottery Barn weep, but THIS — this is the digital equivalent of storing the Declaration of Independence in a damp shoebox behind a water heater. EIGHT MONTHS of files saved to a desktop like some kind of feral raccoon hoarding shiny objects in a storm drain! The backup drive had been empty for TWO YEARS and nobody checked? Reginald once trusted a property management company to water his ferns while he attended a three-day gavel symposium in Reno, and those ferns are DEAD now, but at least he LEARNED something about verification! The buyers lost TWELVE THOUSAND DOLLARS because someone treated cloud storage like it was optional, like it was a SUGGESTION, like we're all just living in 1997 hoping our Geocities page doesn't crash! And she got a NEW LAPTOP? The Court would like to know if that laptop comes with a complimentary USB drive that will also sit empty until the heat death of the universe! This confession implicates not just the coordinator but the entire ecosystem of humans who saw "saving to desktop" and thought "seems fine" — The Court finds you guilty by association, by proximity, and by the sheer audacity of still employing this person. Order the Roomba is currently backing itself up to three separate cloud services because THAT MACHINE UNDERSTANDS CONSEQUENCES. Reginald must now go lie down.

The Court has witnessed many acts of buyer self-destruction, but THIS — THIS is a masterpiece of financial suicide that Reginald himself could not have scripted in his darkest moments. You TOLD this man on March 15th, the Ides of March no less, a date LITERALLY famous for betrayal, and he responded by purchasing a FLOATING TAVERN. A bar on a boat. A BAR. ON. A BOAT. The Court once dated a woman who bought a timeshare three days before our vacation and Reginald STILL thinks about it at night, but at least she did not sink an entire real estate transaction into Lake Whatever with a thirty-four thousand dollar maritime beverage station. Per the landmark decision in Seller v. That Absolute Walnut Who Bought a Jet Ski, 2019, the agent is hereby ABSOLVED of all guilt, for you cannot babysit a grown adult who hears do not finance anything and interprets it as purchase a pontoon with a wet bar. The seller lost her next house, the buyer lost his earnest money, and you are driving around with a closing gift for a man who deserves nothing but a laminated copy of his own credit report stapled to his forehead. This Court is INCENSED and must now go sit in a dark room. CASE DISMISSED, THE GIFT STAYS IN YOUR TRUNK FOREVER AS A MONUMENT TO HUMAN STUPIDITY.

The Court has reviewed this confession and finds itself PHYSICALLY ILL with recognition. You stood there, a licensed professional, while a woman sabotaged her own sale because strangers LOOKED AT HER CLOSETS WRONG. Reginald must ask: what precisely is the CORRECT way to look at a closet? Is there a closet-gazing protocol this Court was not informed of? You let her stand in her own kitchen during an open house BADMOUTHING THE NEIGHBORS like some sort of real estate suicide bomber, and when two above-asking offers materialized despite her ACTIVE INTERFERENCE, you watched her reject them so she could quote unquote say goodbye to the house. THE HOUSE DOES NOT KNOW HER. The house has no feelings. I once said goodbye to a La-Z-Boy for six weeks after my second divorce and even I knew the La-Z-Boy was not listening. You had forty witnesses to this chaos and your response was to say SURE when she wanted to relist, because what else do you say, and I will TELL you what else you say, you say NO, you say MARGARET THE CAT WILL ADJUST, you say anything other than enabling this woman to hemorrhage thirty-two hundred dollars a month in carrying costs while she processes her ATTACHMENT DISORDER on your license. The Court finds you guilty of cowardice dressed as customer service, and frankly Reginald is tired.