Wednesday, September 16, 2026

The Court has seen many things in its distinguished career, including the time Reginald accidentally wandered into a staged home that turned out to be a functioning Applebees, but THIS confession represents a fundamental breakdown in the sacred covenant between MLS data and reality. You waltzed into that home like you owned the place, which you did not, because a WET WOMAN WITH A HEATED STYLING IMPLEMENT owned that place, or at least half of it, which brings me to the SISTER who apparently decided to list a co-owned property without mentioning it to her co-owner and honestly that is a level of family dysfunction that makes Reginald's Thanksgiving incident with the gravy boat look like a HALLMARK MOVIE. The husband saying "Ma'am we have an appointment" while a dripping stranger brandishes salon equipment is the kind of delusional confidence The Court sees in agents who think "cozy" means anything other than "you will touch both walls simultaneously." Your buyers are CORRECT to bring this up forever because witnessing a curling iron standoff during what should have been a casual showing of updated fixtures is not something the human brain simply files away. The Court hereby sentences you to carry a bullhorn and announce your presence at every property for the next eighteen months, and also someone needs to check on that sister situation because Reginald smells a partition action and possibly a Dateline episode. ORDER THE ROOMBA HAS SPOKEN.

The Court has reviewed this confession and finds itself PROFOUNDLY DISTURBED by the specter of a woman who signed documents, moved to Florida, remarried, boarded a cruise ship, and yet STILL haunts this transaction like some kind of notarial ghost with a valid lien interest. Let Reginald be clear: this is not a closing, this is a HOSTAGE SITUATION where everyone is being held captive by a filing clerk who went to lunch in 2019 and apparently NEVER CAME BACK. The Court has seen this before, not in any actual case, but in a recurring dream where I am trying to close on a lakehouse and my own mother keeps appearing in the chain of title demanding I call her more often. You stood in that kitchen, counselor, watching a grown man say "but she signed it" into the void, and you did not OBJECT, you did not MOTION TO COMPEL THE OCEAN TO RETURN THIS WOMAN, you simply nodded and let the rate lock expire like some kind of interest rate hospice worker. The buyer is now paying three hundred and forty dollars a month in what The Court officially designates as the "Ex-Wife Cruise Surcharge," which over thirty years totals approximately one hundred twenty-two thousand dollars, or roughly the cost of the cruise she is currently enjoying while you suffer. This Court finds you guilty, the 2019 filing clerk guilty in absentia, and the concept of Florida guilty on general principle, and Reginald must now adjourn because Order the Roomba has entered chambers and is attempting to vacuum the verdict.

The Court has presided over some confounding matters in its time — Reginald once adjudicated a dispute involving a man who listed his own garage as a separate dwelling unit and tried to sell it to himself for tax purposes — but THIS, this transcends mere confusion and enters the realm of the COSMICALLY ABSURD. You are telling this Court that a woman who has owned TWO SEPARATE PROPERTIES for TWELVE YEARS somehow confused them like they were interchangeable socks? That she approved listing photos of a brick house while apparently picturing blue shutters in her mind's eye like some kind of real estate hallucination? The Court finds it DEEPLY SUSPICIOUS that your brain has latched onto the two hundred dollar title fee, because Reginald recognizes this coping mechanism, having once fixated for three weeks on a parking validation stamp after his own divorce proceedings went sideways in ways we shall not discuss here. The sister living in the unlisted house WHO DIDN'T KNOW IT WAS FOR SALE is the detail that has caused The Court to knock over its beverage in chambers, and Order the Roomba is now circulating beneath the bench in what can only be described as jurisdictional distress. You showed her the photos, she signed the address, she SIGNED IT, and yet here we are in a timeline where Maple Court and Maple Drive have merged into a single quantum nightmare of your own accidental making. The Court hereby rules that you are guilty but also somehow a victim, which is a legal paradox that Reginald will now need to go lie down about.