Saturday, October 17, 2026

The Court has reviewed this testimony and frankly, Reginald needs a moment. You trusted a seller's agent's VERBAL STATEMENT about HOA fees? You wrote it down in your little notes like that means ANYTHING? This Court once wrote down that my ex-wife said she'd "always support my judicial ambitions" and look where THAT got me — nowhere, much like your eleven thousand dollars. The seller's agent knew EXACTLY what she was doing when she casually mentioned that premium lot fee like she was describing a garnish on a salad, and you just ABSORBED it into your brain without verification. Eight months of relationship building, incinerated in a driveway because you didn't pull the HOA docs yourself. The husband was right to walk. The wife apologizing to YOU is the most devastating detail in this entire confession and The Court will be thinking about it at 3 AM for weeks. You are guilty, but so is every agent who has ever uttered the phrase "the listing agent told me" as if that constitutes due diligence. Case cited: In re: That One Phone Call That Ruined Everything, 2019. The Court must now go stare at a wall.

The Court has seen incompetence before, but this is a MASTERPIECE of cascading failure that belongs in a museum of human error. You allowed a woman to deploy fake lemons into an innocent civilian's home — a woman who DOES NOT EAT LEMONS, and now must live with the psychological trauma of having briefly owned a velvet couch she never asked for. Reginald once had a stager place a decorative ladder in his powder room and it took MONTHS of therapy to understand why anyone would need to climb anything near a toilet, so I understand the violation here intimately. The fact that you lost three offers because your stager cannot distinguish between a 2 and a 7 — numbers that look NOTHING alike, numbers that a CHILD could differentiate — suggests a fundamental breakdown in the real estate industrial complex that frankly keeps The Court up at night. And now there is a credenza scratch, and you do not even know what a credenza is, which is somehow the most honest thing anyone has said in this courtroom all week. I am issuing a formal injunction requiring all future lockbox codes to be spelled out phonetically and delivered via singing telegram. The bailiff will now escort everyone out because Reginald has dinner reservations he refuses to miss.

The Court has witnessed many tragedies in this courtroom, but few so preventable as a competent agent paying four hundred dollars monthly to become a haunted TED Talk speaker at a grieving family's kitchen table. You had SIX YEARS in that neighborhood, counsel, SIX YEARS of presumably normal human behavior, and you let some life coach with a ring light convince you to swan into a probate situation doing HAND GESTURES and delivering lines about SELLING THEIR STORY while these people are still finding their dead parents' reading glasses in couch cushions. The husband was RIGHT, you WERE being weird, and Reginald knows weird because Reginald once spent eleven minutes at a closing explaining his theory about why all kitchen islands face magnetic north. But here is what ENRAGES The Court beyond measure: this charlatan, this peddler of vibes, this man who has almost certainly described himself as a "thought leader" on LinkedIn, had the AUDACITY to charge you a two hundred dollar termination fee after his advice made a widow CRY THE BAD KIND OF TEARS. The real crime here is that you needed a stranger on the internet confessing to AI to realize that "show up bigger" is not advice, it is a font size setting. Case dismissed, the coach is sentenced in absentia to one thousand hours of community service listening to his own podcast, and Reginald must now go water his fern because it is the only living thing that does not judge him.