by Paul Slaybaugh | Oct 12, 2011 | This & That
“Friedster, what the hell are you doing with that chicken?”
Startled, Ned Friedgen looked up to find his moon-faced boss hovering in the doorway.
“Oh. Hi, sir,” the design engineer acknowledged. “Just fiddling with the ‘Nequity’ algorithm again.”
Squawk!
“What’s with the blindfold,” Baron Schlumpf pressed as he eyed the fowl.
Ned’s brow wrinkled in confusion as he gnawed on a piece of vending machine jerky.
“What blindfold?”
“Exactly,” Mr. Schlumpf responded, pulling up a lime green, ergonomic bean-bag chair and plopping down uninvited.
“I understand that this is your first week here,” he said over the chair’s protesting contents. “It’s only natural that you want to ease into things, feel your way around a bit before sticking your neck out.”
He chuckled at his own pun.
“I just don’t understand why-” Ned began.
“We didn’t bring you on board to play it safe,” Mr. Schlumpf continued over him. “If there is one thing we here at Umilleau.com are all about, it’s taking risks. We want you to be bold. We want you to be outlandish. We want you to be the guy that we hand-picked out of the World of Warcraft chat room for this position. We don’t want Ned Friedgen. We want the Friedster.”
Ned hung his head; a palpable air of defeat overpowering his liberally-applied Axe Body Wash as the chicken pecked at his vintage Converse All Stars.
Squawk!
“Ah, don’t take it so hard,” Mr. Schlumpf consoled. “You’ll get the hang of it. The most important thing to remember is that we don’t think outside the box, because there is no box. Take your wildest idea, and make it even wilder. That’s the Umilleau way.”
“There is no spoon,” Ned intoned, affecting his best Keanu Reeves impersonation before biting off another succulent hunk of jerky. He thought it might be bison, but that didn’t seem quite right.
“Take your chicken here,” Mr. Schlumpf continued. “Teasing the plumage into a rockabilly pompadour was a fine start, you just need to dial it up a notch to really take it to the next level.”
“Next level,” Ned asked.
The bird tugged at a red shoelace. Ned decided to call him Elvis.
“We don’t just want a chicken,” Mr. Schlumpf answered. “We want a blindfolded chicken.”
“Is that even legal?”
“We don’t just want a blindfolded chicken,” Mr. Schlumpf pressed on, his loose jowls threatening to consume his skinny, black tie as his excitement grew. “We want a blindfolded chicken that navigates an electrified hopscotch grid with randomly assigned corresponding numbers.”
“Oh my God!”
“Most importantly,” Mr. Schlumpf concluded. “We want it by Friday.”
“You want me to completely redesign the home evaluation metric by Friday,” Ned squealed in horror.
His boss nodded.
“We’ve had a good run with the blind donkey we have been using to select property values from a top hat,” Mr. Schlumpf confided, shifting gears.
“Are you serious,” Ned questioned. “I looked my house up on the site last night, and the value was off by a hundred thousand!”
“An all too familiar refrain,” Mr. Schlumpf admitted. “Alas, Blinky had to die.”
Ned’s hazel eyes bulged out of his head in near perfect imitation of the image of John Belushi under the word College on his grey t-shirt.
“You killed a donkey because he picked the wrong values out of a hat?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mr. Schlumpf retorted. “I’m not an ogre. We didn’t send him off to the great barn in the sky because of the ninety two percent margin of error.”
“Then why,” Ned asked, perplexed.
“Money,” Mr. Schlumpf answered. “The damn thing wanted more money.”
“So what, um … what did you do with him?”
A gleam rose in Mr. Schlumpf’s eye.
“How’s the jerky,” he asked with a wicked grin.
Horrified, Ned spat the last few strands onto the bamboo floor.
“Jesus!”
Mr. Schlumpf bowed his mostly bald head and made the sign of the cross in mock reverence.
“Couldn’t you just ship him off to the circus or something,” Ned asked, trying to wipe the oily taste from his tongue.
“And set an example for the chicken that contract holdouts are rewarded,” Mr. Schlumpf demanded. “I think not!”
Mr. Schlumpf’s eyes narrowed as he wagged a bloated finger at his underling.
“Don’t you go getting too close to the talent, kid,” Mr. Schlumpf warned. “Your predecessor made that mistake. Couldn’t handle the inevitable eventuality. That’s why it falls to you to get a new fortune-telling beast trained up before the East coast FSBO market starts crawling our site this weekend.”
“Can I ask a stupid question.” Ned ventured.
“There are no stupid questions,” Mr. Schlumpf assured him with a conspiratorial wink. “Just stupid people eager to be manipulated.”
“Why don’t we just implement a reliable analysis of a home’s true worth?”
Mr. Schlumpf erupted in wet laughter, ending in a coughing fit.
“Sure,” he croaked between spasms. “While we’re at it, we can call ourselves ‘appraisers,’ or ‘Realtors!’ Maybe catch a plane to look at each individual property we evaluate from two thousand miles away?”
“Look,” he lectured the newbie. “We are creating our own niche here. To survive online in this day and age, you can offer something reliable, or you can offer something revolutionary. We offer revolutionary.”
“Even if it doesn’t work?”
“Especially if it doesn’t work,” Mr. Schlumpf stressed. “Consumers want ‘right now’ more than they want ‘right,’ so they’ll keep coming back as long as the lie is too brazen to doubt.”
“Seems like a business model with a limited shelf life,” Ned argued, deciding he wouldn’t list this career detour when he updated his resume for Monster.
Mr. Schlumpf grudgingly nodded.
“Once the novelty wears off and the public starts looking at your service critically, investor capital dries up faster than a Danny Bonaduce comeback.”
“So you need a shiny, new gimmick,” Ned intuited. “Or a feathery one, as it were.”
They both looked at the quizzical chicken, which was now pecking at its reflection in the funhouse mirror on the exterior wall where a window should have been. Mr. Schlumpf was right. Elvis didn’t strike Ned as particularly captivating.
“How about a card-counting baboon with a purple ass,” Ned suggested at last.
Squawk!
“Now you’re getting it.”
by Paul Slaybaugh | Oct 7, 2011 | Home Selling
“So what do we think of Toots?”
Rochelle Laraway waited the three seconds it took for her husband to look up from his notes.
“Toots,” the software engineer questioned, pulling his keen eyes from the meticulously organized data on the yellow legal pad.
“Mr. Bartowski,” Rochelle replied. “Don’t pretend you didn’t notice.”
She pinched her nose and waved a hand in front of her face; her flawless skin scrunched up against an imagined stench.
“That’s just mean, Ro,” Shane scolded, unable to suppress a smile. “It could be a medical condition.”
“Yeah, gluteous halitosis,” Rochelle countered with a laugh. “I’m sorry, but he smells like rotten eggplant.”
Shane threw his hands in the air; exasperated, as always, by his wife’s unparalleled aversion to pragmatism. Who knew choosing a Real Estate agent would be the first real test of their young marriage?
“We’re not getting anywhere here,” he declared, focusing on her thick eyelashes as they batted once, twice, thrice.
“Really? I think we are making some progress,” Rochelle argued.
“Progress,” Shane wondered. “Thus far, we have determined that Mrs. Dahl has a voice like shrapnel and reminds you of my mother …”
“Grr,” Rochelle growled.
“… Mr. Shroeder, or should I say, Jerry Maguire,” Shane continued, “is too slick.”
“Show me the money,” Rochelle squealed.
“And now poor Mr. Bartowski is a touch malodorous,” Shane finished.
“A touch malodorous,” Rochelle gasped. “The man is a walking septic tank!”
Shane bent back over his notes, tugging on the sleeve cuff of his lightly-starched cotton button-up exactly three times before picking up the pad.
“I knew it would come to this,” he confided. “So I went ahead and compiled a list of pros and cons for each candidate.”
Rochelle slouched back in her chair with arms crossed. Her dark eyes brimmed with skepticism. She was stunning.
“To take emotion and irrelevant personality quirks out of the equation, I assigned each one a number at random,” Shane said. “Remember, Ro, we’re selecting a Real Estate agent, not a travel companion.”
Rochelle remained silent.
“Agent number one is a twenty year veteran of the business. Strong interpersonal skills, strong sales record,” Shane began. “Numerous productivity awards and industry designations. Works for a boutique brokerage that specializes in both our area and the luxury market.”
“Likes pina coladas and getting caught in the rain,” Rochelle deadpanned.
“Negatives,” Shane continued, ignoring her. “Unimpressive web presence, including a non-user friendly website. More emphasis on print marketing than internet advertising. High commission rate.”
Shane waited a beat, expecting another retort from the resident smart alec. When he didn’t get one, he continued.
“Agent number two is a sixteen year vet. Decent web presence. Equal emphasis on online marketing and traditional methods. Not as many sales in our neighborhood as Agent One, but more total sales in the last twelve months. Works for a large brokerage with a national buyer referral base. Slightly better commission rate.”
“Go on,” Rochelle prodded, warming to the analytical approach despite herself.
“Chief negatives include a high volume of listings, and being slightly out of area. Will our home receive the attention it requires? Will we get passed on to an assistant?”
“Agent number three is the most tech savvy,” Shane continued. “Amazing website, near the top of virtually every Google search term for our area. Very user-friendly. More reliance on tech than traditional marketing means less intrusion from tour groups and open houses. Best commission rate of the bunch. Very aggressive.”
“Negatives,” Rochelle prompted, now leaning forward with elbows on knees; the palms of her hands supporting her delicate chin.
“Only four years in the business,” Shane obliged. “Fewest total sales, none in the immediate neighborhood. Never heard of the brokerage.”
“Number two,” Rochelle announced.
“Just like that?”
“Yes, just like that,” she confirmed. “And that’s your choice, too.”
All Shane could do was smile. Married less than a year, and she already knew him inside and out.
“See, babe,” he crowed. “Logic and reason. It’s all about choosing the right tool for the job, not a best friend.”
“Shall we meet our agent,” he asked with a wry grin, tapping the notepad three times before flipping the page.
“Drumroll, please,” he requested.
Rochelle obliged by rolling her tongue and patting her designer blue jean-clad knees.
“And the winner is … Hans Bartowski!”
Rochelle groaned and buried her head in her hands.
“Reshuffle the deck,” she instructed through her fingers. “We are not listing with Captain Flatulence.”
“You mean Toots,” Shane corrected as he tore the sheet of paper from the pad, folded it three times and set it aside.
“So now what?”
“We tried it your way,” Rochelle advised. “Now we try mine.”
Now it was Shane’s turn to groan as he emptied his mind of reason and held on for the ride.
by Paul Slaybaugh | Oct 5, 2011 | This & That
Three Real Estate agents sat shoulder to shoulder at the bar of a local watering hole, sipping happy hour cocktails like they did every Friday. One made his bones in the current market as a bank owned property (REO) specialist. Another had carved out a niche in the short sale arena. The third had migrated to property management after the bubble burst.
“So, Stanley,” Wayne, the REO agent, began as he adjusted his considerable girth from one cheek to the other on an overmatched bar stool. “How go things in the land of non-successful closings?”
The perpetually nervous short sale agent jumped at the accompanying nudge from his ham hocked companion. His black, horn-rimmed glasses were undisturbed, but he adjusted them anyway.
“Going just fine, thank you very much,” he replied; his clipped, aristocratic voice accompanied by an explosion of slender fingers. “These banks are finally getting the idea that it’s better to offload losing assets before they hit their books. Better systems, better staffing, better closing rates … I’d say your aorta isn’t the only thing that’s gonna need a stent soon, my ample friend.”
He made an “O” with his thumb and fingertips, closing one eye and peering at his obnoxious companion through the opening with the other before slowly collapsing his knuckles into a fist.
“How’s that pipeline of yours looking these days?”
Wayne guffawed; a deep, throaty chortle. He fiddled with the gargantuan turquoise ring on his left pinkie.
“Please,” he dismissed. “I’m carrying fourteen listings right now, and have six BPOs lined up for this weekend. As long as your deals keep blowing up at the zero hour, I’ll have a job.”
He tossed a handful of pistachios into his reddening maw.
“Just listen to you two,” the property manager said as she set down her scotch and soda with a loud thunk. “Having a pissing contest in your own clients’ graveyard.”
Stanley and Wayne rolled their eyes as they braced for the perfunctory scolding.
“These are real people losing their homes, and all you buffoons can do is laugh about it as you take your blood money?”
“Lighten up, Agnes,” Wayne answered. “I don’t like these banks anymore than you do, but someone has to list their properties. Would you rather they just sit there and collect weeds? Maybe you don’t mind living with vacant crack houses in your neighborhood, but I’d rather sell them to nice families who will fix them up and actually add value to the community. ”
“He’s right, your Highness,” Stanley confirmed. “Besides, how can you accuse me of anything but heroism? While you’ve been hiding out in property management limbo and shirking your obligations, I’m helping bail my old clients out of their dire circumstances. You hit the eject button, and left me and Wayne here to clean up the mess. If anything, we deserve medals.”
“Ejected? Ejected?!”
Agnes shook with rage, her weathered face going beet red beneath a salt and pepper crew cut.
“I moved into an arena where I could actually help my clients hold onto their homes instead of killing their dreams of home ownership for the next two to five years,” she railed. “What do you tell your underwater clients who are forced to move by a job relocation or a family crisis? Sorry, but let’s crash your credit so I can get paid? Good luck buying or leasing a home wherever you are heading?”
“Quit being so melodramatic, Agnes,” Wayne chastised. “You’re going to give Stanley another stroke.”
Both looked at Stanley, who, true to form, appeared to be vacillating somewhere between diabetic shock and epileptic fit. A scent reminiscent of Lysol and cough drops emanated from the beads of clammy sweat that rose on his forehead.
“Breathe, little buddy, breathe,” Wayne coached as Agnes signaled the bartender to hit her again.
The waif of a man closed his eyes and focused on his happy place, 2005, until the episode passed.
“Let’s just agree that we are all contributing in our own way,” Stanley squeaked through clenched teeth.
“Agreed,” Agnes mumbled into her drink.
“Agreed,” Wayne declared with gusto, holding his pint aloft. “We are Real Estate knights, come forth to slay the marauding dragons!”
“Pardon me,” a new voice interrupted.
The trio swiveled on their stools to take in the interloper before responding in unison.
“Jerry?”
The newcomer raised the pistol in his right hand and shot each agent in the face. The bar erupted in chaos as the remaining patrons fled.
“What,” the gunman demanded in response to the bartender’s frozen stare.
“That one said he’d stop the foreclosure,” he explained, gesturing at Stanley’s rigid body with his chin.
“This fat bastard had the locks changed and all my stuff thrown out on the street,” he said, his foot swallowed by Wayne’s ample abdomen as he kicked the REO agent in the ribs.
“And Miss Congeniality here denied my application for not one, but two rental properties on account of my ruined credit. I’ve been living behind the Luby’s on 12th the last two weeks.”
The bartender gulped, his tired eyes widening in recognition.
“Heard the guy that sold me the place back in oh six left the business entirely,” Jerry confided.
The bartender turned to run.
“Can’t miss neighborhood, eh, Ted,” Jerry asked as he leveled the gun and squeezed the trigger a fourth and final time.
