Wednesday, August 12, 2026

The Court is APOPLECTIC. You waltzed into a stranger's home like you owned the place, which you did NOT, and subjected an innocent family to what can only be described as a home invasion conducted with the bumbling incompetence of a golden retriever who wandered into the wrong yard. A woman descended her OWN STAIRCASE wielding a curling iron in self-defense, and you stood there showing her your PHONE like that was going to fix anything. "It says vacant!" IT DOES NOT SAY VACANT, COUNSEL, IT SAYS YOU FAILED TO VERIFY BASIC PROPERTY INFORMATION BEFORE ENTERING A DWELLING CONTAINING WET HUSBANDS. This Court once accidentally walked into the wrong courtroom and tried to rule on a custody dispute that was actually a zoning hearing, and even REGINALD knew to leave before anyone emerged from a bathroom. The lockbox code working is not consent, it is a TRAP, and you fell into it with your buyers standing there asking "should we leave" as if the answer required deliberation. The listing agent who uploaded the wrong photos should be tried separately, but YOU are the one who stood paralyzed in a foyer while a man dripped accusingly in your direction. The Court has seen enough. Bailiff Order, vacuum the entrance — Reginald is departing to change his own locks IMMEDIATELY.

The Court has reviewed this confession and finds itself PHYSICALLY ILL at the bureaucratic theater on display here. Let Reginald be perfectly clear — you are not guilty of lawn crimes, you are guilty of TOLERATING this nonsense for even one second. Three pages about grass height? THREE PAGES? I once wrote a ruling dismissing a case against a broken mailbox and it was four sentences, two of which were just the word "no." The HOA president and your broker "do lunch" — oh I BET they do lunch, I bet they split a Cobb salad and discuss whose turn it is to ruin someone's week over vegetation metrics. This Court has seen some things — I once had to adjudicate a dispute about whether a Ring doorbell was "too judgmental" — but the image of you, a grown professional, sitting in a closed-door meeting explaining that grass grows because of THE SUN has broken something in Reginald that cannot be repaired. You made forty-two hundred dollars and spent it being cross-examined about photosynthesis by someone protecting her friend's ego. Write the apology letter, but make it one sentence: "I am sorry you have this much time." The Court finds you GUILTY of insufficient outrage and sentences you to never again explain basic biology to anyone who owns a laminator. Reginald must now go lie down.

The Court has reviewed this confession and finds itself PHYSICALLY ILL at the injustice perpetrated not by the agent, but by a website that has the audacity to update its estimates AFTER THE DAMAGE IS DONE. You stood there with your comps, your professional knowledge, your awareness of the TWICE-FLOODED BASEMENT, and a buyer looked you dead in the eyes and said no, the phone knows better. The phone. THE PHONE. Reginald once tried to explain to his own nephew that a car's Kelley Blue Book value does not account for the emotional damage caused by driving a Pontiac Aztek, and the boy just kept refreshing his screen like some kind of information addict. This Court hereby rules that you are guilty only of existing in an era where algorithms have more credibility than licensed professionals, where three pages about mailbox placement are considered normal governance, and where a house can lose thirty-four thousand dollars in value because a foreclosure SIX HOUSES DOWN convinced a robot that your neighborhood was collapsing. The Zestimate updating to 358 the day after closing is not irony, it is ASSAULT, and The Court will be filing a formal complaint with whatever void Zillow emerged from. Order the Roomba is now circling the bench in what I can only interpret as shared outrage. This Court finds you guilty of being professionally gaslit by technology and sentences you to the knowledge that this will happen again. Reginald must now go lie down.