Wednesday, July 22, 2026

The Court has reviewed this confession and finds itself PHYSICALLY ILL at the cascade of failures presented before it today. You came in through the garage "like we agreed" but somehow failed to conduct even a PRELIMINARY CAT SWEEP of the premises, a basic protocol established in Whiskers v. Open House Chaos, 2019, a case Reginald remembers vividly because he ruled on it from a Panera Bread parking lot. A $1,200 vintage perfume collection now lies in fragments because you treated this showing like a casual stroll through a property rather than what it actually is: A SACRED COVENANT BETWEEN AGENT, SELLER, BUYER, AND ANY DOMESTICATED ANIMALS WITH KNOWN BEHAVIORAL ISSUES. The Court must pause here to note that I once had a cat named Chancellor who also did not like strangers, and I respected Chancellor's boundaries, which is more than can be said for whatever child was apparently allowed to roam FREE like some sort of feral listing inspector. You stand there asking who pays for the bottles as if the answer is not OBVIOUSLY you, the person who failed to verify seller absence, failed to inquire about pets, and failed to establish whether CHILDREN would be present at what was supposed to be a professional real estate transaction. The seller is in a bathrobe, the cat has claimed the refrigerator as sovereign territory, and Reginald has seen ENOUGH. This Court hereby orders you to pay for the perfume bottles, apologize to the cat in writing, and never again enter a property through the garage without announcing yourself like a person with a functioning sense of professional duty.

The Court is VIBRATING with indignation at this confession, and not the good kind of vibrating like when Reginald sits too close to the dryer during the spin cycle. You had ONE POST-CLOSING OBLIGATION, agent, ONE, and you treated it with the same casual disregard I reserve for barn doors and those people who pronounce "realtor" with three syllables. A note in your phone? A NOTE IN YOUR PHONE? The Court once put a note in his phone to "stop giving legal advice at Thanksgiving" and look how THAT turned out, which is to say I am no longer invited to Thanksgiving OR the Fourth of July cookout OR my nephew's piano recital, but that is IRRELEVANT to these proceedings. Some confused gentleman wandered into a family's garage at 2am like a bewildered raccoon with opposable thumbs, and the only thing standing between that moment and complete catastrophe was apparently his own lack of criminal ambition. Your broker called it a catastrophic lapse in judgment and you think that was DRAMATIC? I have seen dramatic, agent, I once watched a home inspector weep openly over a cracked foundation, and THIS situation warranted at minimum light theatrical sobbing. The $800 you paid was not restitution, it was a MERCY, because in Escrow v. That Unlocked Shed Behind My Dentist's Office (2022), the Court established that unsecured access points are basically just invitations to chaos wearing a trench coat. Reginald has spoken, and Reginald must now go change his own garage code immediately.

The Court has reviewed this confession and finds itself PERSONALLY VICTIMIZED by the phrase "I thought we paid that off," which is the real estate equivalent of saying "I thought I turned off the oven" while your kitchen is actively on fire. Let the record show that in Reginald v. His Own 2017 Kitchen Renovation, this Court learned the hard way that thinking you paid the tile guy and actually paying the tile guy are two VASTLY different legal realities, and I still cannot look at subway tile without experiencing what my therapist calls "financial flashbacks." The seller's audacity to blame YOU for her phantom lien is the kind of behavior that makes The Court want to subpoena her pool and cross-examine it about its role in this EIGHTY-NINE THOUSAND DOLLAR ACT OF AQUATIC FRAUD. You stood in your kitchen in your underwear at 6 AM receiving news that would make lesser agents simply walk into the sea, and for that this Court awards you partial clemency, but the fact remains that a buyer walked, a rate lock died, and somewhere a pool sits there being NOT EVEN NICE. The Court hereby sentences the seller to explain the concept of amortization to a jury of title insurance underwriters while you are ordered to never drive past that house again because Reginald can hear your blood pressure rising from here.