Friday, July 31, 2026

The Court is APOPLECTIC. You left a door unlocked because your PHONE was DYING? Reginald once presided over a case where a Roomba was accused of territorial aggression and even THAT defendant showed more responsibility than you have demonstrated here. You created what legal scholars call a "come on in and destroy everything" situation, then filed a report suggesting some mysterious intruder materialized through solid walls like a ghost with a vendetta against hardwood floors. The Court has seen staging lamps, and while they are often overpriced and occasionally hideous, they did not deserve this fate, and NEITHER DID THOSE FLOORS. Hardwood buckling is not just property damage, it is a CRIME AGAINST THE VERY CONCEPT OF RESALE VALUE, and I should know because I once wept openly at a listing where someone had painted over original oak trim. You wanted to get home, and now a seller has buckled dining room floors and three weeks of her life she will never recover, and somewhere a throw pillow sits in a pawn shop wondering what it did to deserve this. The Court finds your confession not just damning but EXHAUSTING, and Reginald must now adjourn to consult with The Council about whether doors should simply be abolished entirely.

The Court has seen many things in its distinguished career, but NEVER has Reginald witnessed such a flagrant case of produce-based deception. A pool, counsel, is a body of water designed for recreation and the occasional regrettable cannonball. A pool is NOT a raised bed garden masquerading as aquatic infrastructure. The sellers in this matter committed what we in the legal profession call a Vegetable Switcheroo, which I believe was first established in Henderson v. That Suspicious Koi Pond, 2019. And YOU, agent, stood there while tomatoes — TOMATOES — grew in formation, mocking the very concept of chlorine. The Court must pause here because this reminds me of my ex-wife, who also promised me a pool and delivered only disappointment and a subscription to Gardening Monthly that I NEVER ASKED FOR. The nephew paying six hundred dollars a month is now living in what is legally classified as a salsa pit, and The Court hopes he enjoys his marinara lifestyle because JUSTICE CERTAINLY DOES NOT. This gavel strike is for every buyer who ever believed a listing photo. Reginald must now retire to his chambers to compose a strongly worded letter to the National Association of Realtors about mandatory tomato disclosure.

The Court is PHYSICALLY ILL. Not metaphorically, Reginald actually feels unwell, and I am pointing at you through whatever screen you are reading this on. You received material information about an EIGHT THOUSAND DOLLAR special assessment, and your response was to file it under "eh, busy day" like it was a coupon for dry cleaning? The wife called you CRYING, not even angry, just CONFUSED, which is somehow worse, and you performed a little theater piece called "Gosh How Strange Let Me Investigate" like you were some kind of roofing detective and not the ACTUAL SOURCE OF HER CONFUSION. This reminds The Court of my third cousin Melvin who once "forgot" to mention he had backed his Camry into my koi pond and then showed up to Thanksgiving asking if I had noticed any "water displacement issues" in the yard. You are still receiving referrals from these people, which means you are not just a liar but a SUCCESSFUL liar, and The Court finds this personally offensive because Reginald has never successfully lied about anything, not even about whether he finished the leftover lasagna, which I did, Sharon, I DID. This Court hereby orders you to feel bad about this at least once a week for the rest of your natural life. The gavel has spoken and Reginald must now go sit in his car for a while.