by Paul Slaybaugh | Nov 20, 2011 | This & That
Scottsdale, AZ – A Valley home inspector has declared war on leaky pipes.
And Real Estate agents.
Tired of consumer demands for advice on matters outside of the scope of his services, Lester Hubble has announced on his small business website that receives up to four visits a day that all future inquiries about what the seller is obligated to fix will be directed to his blistered middle finger.
“I offer home inspection services, not transactional advice,” an exasperated Hubble explained when reached for comment. “Want to know what to do with the information provided in my report? Talk to the guy in the khakis and eighty dollar sunglasses.”
“Your Realtor,” Hubble clarified. “You know, the guy making three percent to show up for the last five minutes of the inspection and act like he knows the difference between his ass and a hole in the freon line.”
Reached for comment, local Realtor Dolores Dunmisset acknowledged that she had no idea what she requested on the last repair demand list she submitted on behalf of a client.
“GFCIs, HVACs … most of the stuff in those reports sounds like a designation I should have on my business card,” she chuckled. “I just know that if it shows up on the last page, it’s broken and we want it fixed.”
“Me and a few of my friends started adding bogus items to our reports a few months back,” Hubble confided. “Since ninety nine percent of these idiots would call their handyman for a repair bid on a faulty particle accelerator so long as it appeared in the summary, we have a running bet to see who can get the craziest thing included in a demand list.”
Asked if he was bitter that Realtors, who would seem to know very little about the actual workings of a house, stand to earn an inordinately high fee for every transaction in comparison to the $250-450 he charges per inspection, Hubble did not equivocate.
“Yes.”
Hubble did admit that he had encountered a handful of agents over the years who actually asked pertinent questions and sought clarification on the exact nature of the deficiencies noted in his reports, but was quick to add that stumbling upon those rare exceptions was akin to discovering Bigfoot playing lawn darts with the Loch Ness Monster in Area 51.
“A needle in a blown-in stack of fiberglass,” he explained.
Unbeknownst to them, those very agents are the unwitting commodities being wagered by Hubble and his cohorts in what has turned into a high stakes affair.
“Yeah,” he confirmed. “Winner gets books of preferred agent business from the losers. Losers fight over the game show hosts and Fembots.”
Asked if he was winning the contest, Hubble shook his head.
“I really need to up my game if I’m going to top Fahlengrade. Reverse polarity on a traversable wormhole within the sump pump was epic.”
Reached for comment, the National Association of Realtors released a statement warning consumers to consult their home inspection specialist about the dangers of faulty wiring.
–Paul Slaybaugh, BSRE News ©2011
by Paul Slaybaugh | Nov 17, 2011 | This & That
Carefree, AZ – A Valley appraiser is fighting back against the fledgling housing recovery. Citing a disturbing trend in sales data that indicates home prices may be inching up in some parts of the greater Phoenix metropolitan area, Dieter Gaines of Hindsight Appraisals is leading the charge against what he considers to be bubble-inducing, artificial advances.
“If there is anything to be learned from the frenzy of two thousand four to two thousand six,” Gaines said of the unprecedent spike in home values that precipitated the crash of two thousand eight. “It’s that we can never again allow the runaway train of home appreciation to destabilize our market.”
Pressed on whether a free-falling market could really be further undermined by the natural period of recovery that follows a decline, Gaines was adamant.
“Sure,” he noted. “Just a mild gain here, or a slight bump there seems harmless enough if taken as isolated phenomena, but it’s a slippery slope … or incline, as it were. Left unchecked, the entire market is running uphill before you know it.”
Believing all forms of appreciation to be creations of the criminally gullible and Democrats, Gaines is determined to single-handedly stymie the next crisis before it starts.
“Last one I did was an acre parcel in the Town of Paradise Valley,” Gaines said. “Custom home, two thousand nine construction, purchase price of one point six million. Comped out at about one point nine. Thought I was screwed until I found a pig farm twelve miles away that helped me bring it in low.”
Not all Real Estate professionals are sold on the revolutionary approach Gaines refers to as ‘forced market normalcy’.
“Idiot thinks he’s the Amazing Kreskin,” one local Realtor who asked to remain anonymous complained when reached for comment. “I gave him ten solid comps from the past three months that justified purchase price, and he still managed to divine that the house was worth a thousand less than a willing buyer and seller agreed to in the open market.”
“Judgment calls,” Gaines explained with a smile when presented with a host of such complaints.
“I mean, a thousand less,” the anonymous agent added. “On a three point eight million dollar sale? I don’t know whether to kick him in the teeth or take him to Vegas. Little prick must kill it at the roulette table.”
“Sometimes I feel guilty about standing between homeowners and their equity,” Gaines admitted. “But then I swallow a handful of barbiturates and sit down to watch Natural Born Killers until it goes away. Usually wake up three days later in a truck stop restroom, right as rain.”
Responding to claims that he is leveraging the ‘Declining Market’ stigma to ensure his top-of-line status with underwriters and banks who are all too happy to suppress values, and in turn, the financial risk of each new loan they fund, Gaines admitted to a certain level of satisfaction.
“Realtors have been looking over my shoulder for years, questioning my evaluations,” he explained on followup, acknowledging that new regulations intended to decrease market volatility have made it easier for him to deflect such scrutiny. “Well, now that the shoe is on the other foot, I’ve got a question of my own.”
“How ya like me now, b1$ch?”
The Arizona Board of Appraisers declined comment on this story.
Paul Slaybaugh, BSRE News ©2011
by Paul Slaybaugh | Nov 14, 2011 | This & That
11/14/2011
Scottsdale, AZ – In a turn of events that only the most astute amateur psychologist could have seen coming, a longtime Phoenix area home shopper has split with her Real Estate agent of four years.
Sources indicate that Haley Cosmo had become frustrated in recent months with the lack of attention she was being paid by her professional significant other.
“It started somewhere around the two hundredth house we looked at,” Cosmo confirmed. “A cute, little bank-owned Victorian that would have been perfect if the medicine cabinet in the guest bath had a third shelf.”
According to Cosmo, her agent’s behavior became erratic shortly after that fateful August showing.
“He started chasing me off the phone after an hour, right in the middle of a sentence, with some cockamamie excuse like he had to get the kids dressed for school or go present a contract,” Cosmo complained. “I’d text him at 12 AM about the house I should have bought last year and wouldn’t get a response for like twenty minutes! Twenty!”
Noting that Real Estate is a service industry and that her agent <name withheld> stands to gross almost $2800 before taxes when she ultimately purchases a home, Cosmo believes the deterioration in the relationship can be attributed to nothing more than misplaced priorities.
“It wasn’t always this way,” she lamented. “In the beginning, we used to talk. I mean really talk. Now it just seems like we are always going in different directions.”
“Besides,” she added. “He already taught me everything he knows about the area and the market. Not like he’s bringing anything new to our weekly tours at this point.”
“Not all agent-client relationships are a good fit,” Arizona Association of Realtors spokesperson Aru Cereous admitted when reached for comment. “Especially when one party is a bugshit crazy person with boundary issues who has no genuine interest in ever completing a home purchase.”
“He kept pushing me away, telling me he had to see other people,” Cosmo added. “Now I may be a modern woman, but I am not ready for an open relationship with my Realtor.”
“I think I need an agent more in tune with my needs.”
Or a dog, as it turns out.
Having given up the house hunt for the time being, Cosmo claims to be happier than she’s ever been with the new addition to the studio apartment she’s renting while she waits for her condo in Blythe to sell.
“Griswald never has a scheduling conflict,” Cosmo noted, patting the Springer Spaniel as she retrieved a piece of waste with a plastic bag.
“Maybe I’ll see if I can get him licensed when the time comes to try again.”
Asked whether she felt any remorse for divorcing her agent on the grounds of irreconcilable differences before he could be compensated for the time, effort and expense spent over the course of their relationship, Cosmo’s response was succinct.
“F&%$ him.”
– Paul Slaybaugh, BSRE News ©2011
by Paul Slaybaugh | Oct 30, 2011 | This & That
Willy was a liar.
Not a teller of tall tales, not a stretcher of the truth, but a pathological liar. Whether swearing that his Uncle Doug played cowbell on Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper,’ or assuring an unsuspecting child that one plus one equals purple, weaving extravagant falsehoods came as naturally to the forty six year old Nobel laureate/nuclear physicist/bratwurst-eating champion as breathing.
So it was that Willy found himself speaking with a Real Estate agent one late autumn morning, outlining his very specific criteria for the home he intended to purchase.
“The community must be horse-friendly,” Willy informed the agent. “Did I tell you Starchaser showed at Belmont last year? Would have won if he didn’t come up lame half a length from the tape.”
Harris Burfect struggled to keep up, scribbling in the margins of a notepad already overwhelmed with his chicken-scratch. A cynic by nature, Harris had taken the appointment on the off chance that the Danny DeVito look-alike was legit. He’d learned his lesson about prematurely blowing off prospects as flakes the hard way.
“And no wells,” Willy continued. “Arsenic poisoning claimed his sire at the ranch I used to own in Montana.”
“We’ll certainly have the property inspected for hazar-”
“Wasn’t the well itself that did him in,” Willy insisted, waving off the agent’s placation. “It was old man Monticore. He was always jealous of my stallions, as he was right to be. He couldn’t raise a barn in Amish country, let alone a thoroughbred.”
“Autopsy was ruled inconclusive,” he continued, making air quotes with his sausage fingers. “But he had everyone from the coroner to the constable in his hip pocket. Those thieves had been trying to run me out of that two-bit town ever since I struck oil in the summer of two thousand and two. Greedy pigs would stop at nothing to get me off that claim.”
Harris shook out the cramp in his hand and turned to a new page. Words such as ‘ranch’ and ‘oil’ had dollar bills dancing in his mind’s eye despite his swirling doubts.
“Okay, no wells,” he yielded, eager to steer the conversation back on course. “You okay with septic systems? Most horse properties pre-date the sewer, and not too many ranchers around here have bothered to take on the expense of linking up to it.”
“Well that simply won’t do,” Willy replied. “Septic systems are a biological nightmare. Did you know that the leech field of a typical alternative waste disposal system contains more radioactive residue than a centrifuge that has processed atomic material within the past twenty four hours?”
“I’m not familiar with-”
“It’s true,” Willy assured him. “Over the years, I’ve seen far more extra fingers and missing teeth in remote villages where such waste systems are used than I did during my humanitarian mission to Chernobyl back in ninety eight.”
“Fascinating,” Harris admitted, gawking at the vaguely unhealthy-looking man across the table from him. “How long were you there?”
“Only about six months,” Willy responded. “I wanted to stay, but the intel I’d gathered was deemed too urgent by the powers that be. In hindsight, it was for the best that they pulled me out when they did. Started noticing these … growths.”
Willy rubbed a stooped shoulder as he stared off into the infinity through glassy, brown eyes.
“Powers that be,” Harris wondered. “You mean like CIA?”
Willy pulled back from wherever he’d gone and looked straight at the agent, winking.
“I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”
“Got it, moving on,” Harris allowed. “Have you spoken with a lender about your financing options yet?”
He turned his head to follow the scent of rosemary that passed by on a tray, instantly regretting his own order. He found a dismissive smile on his client’s ruddy face when he turned back.
“I’ll be paying cash,” Willy informed Harris, signalling the agent closer.
Harris leaned across the table to steal a glance at the clipped wad of cash Willy produced from the front pocket of his one size too small, navy blue coat.
“Not that I keep all of my money in greenbacks,” Willy assured him, fiddling with the gold chain around his neck. “If you don’t think ten million will get it done, I’ll prep my assistant to move some bullion. Or maybe a couple of the Rembradts.”
“Very good,” Harris gulped, picturing a humorless courier walking into the title company with an attache case handcuffed to his wrist. His internal crazy alarm had moved to DEFCON-3, but he was willing to play out the string. He’d already invested this much time.
“So when do you want to start looking?”
“Straight away,” Willy answered, checking his watch as he stood. “As soon as I get back from the Maldives.”
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I have a B-2 Spirit to catch.”
Harris made a move for his wallet.
“Please,” Willy said, staying the agent’s arm with his hand. “You insult me.”
He peeled a few bills from his roll and dropped them on the table.
“Have a productive trip, Mr. Stiffu,” Harris said as he extended his hand.
“Can’t shake,” Willy lamented, tossing him a flippant two-finger salute instead. “My attorneys advise it could potentially void the insurance policy.”
“We’ll be in touch. Be ready.”
With that, the squat, little enigma of a man turned on his heel and strolled out of the cafe, stopping once to tell an older couple studying a menu that the eggs benedict were excellent today.
A bemused grin spread across the agent’s face. He was still smiling when the waitress came by to clear the two plates of half-eaten pancakes and settle the check. Who knew? If even a fraction of what he’d been told was true, there might be a sale somewhere in the middle of it yet. Stranger things had happened.
“Sir?”
Harris didn’t hear her as he polished off the last lukewarm swallow of coffee. He was preoccupied with the ornate insignia stamped across the saucer upon which the dainty cup had been resting.
“Sir?”
Monticore Fine China.
“Son of a bitch,” Harris breathed.
“Sir,” the waitress said again, louder.
Harris looked up at the fresh-faced server.
“What am I supposed to do with this,” she asked, waving a stack of Monopoly money hidden beneath a one dollar bill. “Buy Park Place?”
“Sucker’s play,” Harris sighed, reaching for his wallet for the second time in five minutes. “Nobody lands on Boardwalk.”
by Paul Slaybaugh | Oct 25, 2011 | This & That
Scottsdale, AZ – A Valley man attempting a tax deferred housing exchange has met with unlikely opposition: the self-described ‘ninety nine percent’.
Retired postal worker Bryce S. Rhite is currently in the middle of selling the South Scottsdale investment property he has owned for thirty years. Utilizing a device known as a 1031 Tax Deferred Exchange in Real Estate parlance, taxes from the capital gain will be deferred indefinitely so long as the proceeds from the sale are directed towards the purchase of a like property within a prescribed period of time.
This does not sit well with a group identifying itself as Occupy 8307 E. Clarendon Avenue.
“This is just another example of how the plutocrats fatten themselves off the blood of the proletariat,” Occupy spokesman Lester Yu told reporters as he picketed in front of the mid-century ranch home this morning.
“We sit in our underwater houses and pay our taxes,” Yu railed. “Yet one percenters like Mr. Rhite who still have equity in their properties don’t pay a nickel because their friends in Congress create special loopholes to keep wealth in the hands of the oligarchs.”
Another protester, dressed as an Ewok, told reporters that he is fed up with the empire using Endor as a staging area for its capitalistic imperialism. He was later arrested for urinating on a shrub.
The protest drew at least one unlikely participant in Leonard Short, the tenant currently living in the disputed property. Short acknowledged that he was grateful to Mr. Rhite for accepting his lease application despite his admittedly shaky credit and spotty employment record, but felt his landlord should have to pay his fair share like everyone else.
“I’ve got nothing bad to say about the man,” Short stated. “Except that he is a tick on the n*ts&ck of America.”
When reached for comment, Mr. Rhite was perplexed as to the furor surrounding his use of a popular tax code provision that is available to all.
“I bought this house for twenty two thousand dollars,” Rhite said. “Had to work five years of double shifts to save enough for the down payment. I’m not tryin’ to pull a fast one, just ready to get out of this property and into somethin’ else. Ain’t like the money’s goin’ under my mattress.”
That justification did little to mollify the Ewok, who jabbed at passersby with a stick while shouting, “No blood for oil!”
“I just want a little place in the mountains now,” Rhite added. “Pinetop, maybe Prescott.”
“Don’t we all,” Yu responded. “Don’t we all.”
For now, there is nothing the protesters can do to stop the tax-free sale. With the preponderance of attendees believing they had assembled to take part in a flashmob or to protest the less than stellar third season of Jersey Shore, however, that fact did little to dampen the group’s enthusiasm.
“Being out here, letting our voices be heard, is the only way to affect change,” a protester going by the name of Chaz proclaimed. “Or at least get on the news. Hi mom.”
— Paul Slaybaugh, BSRE News ©2011
