by Paul Slaybaugh | Oct 21, 2011 | This & That
Paradise Valley, AZ – Citing a lack of viable leads, local Real Estate giant, Kraken Realty has announced the cancellation of its annual ‘Strike Out Gout!’ charity event. A Valley institution since 1992, the popular fundraiser has been a bright spot in the fight against advanced podiatric disease for nearly two decades.
“It’s with great regret that I inform the residents of our great community that ‘Strike Out Gout’ has bowled its last frame,” Kraken marketing director Judd GiMente told reporters. “We thank everyone who has joined us in standing up to foot disease these past nineteen years, but all good publicity stunts must come to an end.”
Pressed for further explanation, GiMente acknowledged that underwhelming lead generation numbers factored heavily into the decision to abandon an event which raises tens of dollars each year.
“Look,” GiMente stated candidly. “At the end of the day, we are in the sales business, not the ‘let’s go blow a Saturday at the bowling alley’ business. If we can’t turn a little goodwill into some cold, hard dollars and cents, someone else can pick up the anti-microbial torch in the fight against fungus.”
Having expanded the event’s focus in recent years to include those burdened with bunions and corns resembling b-list celebrities, the news comes as a crushing blow to many suffering from embarrassing foot maladies.
“Medicare won’t cover my experimental treatment,” Scottsdale resident Dorothy Swellen lamented, tormented by a growth on her big toe that looks like Bea Arthur. “Without the help of ‘SOG,’ I don’t know how I’m going to pay for the cryogenic chamber or the bunsen burners.”
While sympathetic to the plight of those who have come to rely on the proceeds from the event, GiMente was quick to point out that it takes two to tango.
“In an ‘I scratch your back, you scratch mine’ relationship, it doesn’t work when only one party is doing the scratching,” he claimed.
GiMente did admit that the choice in charitable cause may have had something to do with the disappointing lead conversion numbers.
“People with foot problems don’t like to move,” he said. “And the ones that do won’t even look at a two-story.”
Though there may be a void in the Valley’s collective conscience today, GiMente wouldn’t close the door on the possibility of future pseudo philanthropy.
“We’d like to get involved with a more ambulatory demographic at some point,” he added. “Maybe boredom?”
Whatever affliction the company dives into next, GiMente made it clear that it must be early stage.
“Can’t rightly have all of our leads dying in the middle of a transaction, now can we?”
———————————————————————————————————————————
– Paul Slaybaugh, BSRE News
This parody would be in violation of approximately 87 federal fair housing provisions if it weren’t complete and utter nonsense. Don’t tase me, bro!
by Paul Slaybaugh | Oct 19, 2011 | This & That
In a stunning declaration, local Scottsdale Real Estate agent Barry Sniggles admitted today that his listing at 1007 N Firewater Blvd is not really a steal.
While it is unclear exactly what prompted the confession, Sniggles has been besieged with demands from consumers and REALTORs alike to recant his bombastic claims about the modest three bedroom starter home in recent weeks.
On a hastily arranged conference call, Sniggles told reporters that he regretted any prior advertising that may have led consumers to believe that the nondescript property was, in fact, anything more than a pedestrian Real Estate offering.
“I never set out to deceive anyone,” Sniggles responded when asked if his tweet on September 14th that ‘This Home is a Steal!’ was deliberately misleading. “But I can see how it would be taken out of context.”
Similar puffery has been documented on Sniggles’ Facebook page and within the descriptive content of the property listing itself.
Community activist Steven Caste has been one of the home’s most vocal detractors.
“I mean, it’s not like it’s the biggest piece of &%$? I’ve ever seen,” Caste said when reached for comment at his Scottsdale apartment. “But a steal? Not hardly. It’s at least ten thousand high and could stand some paint.”
“It’s not just this property,” competing Real Estate agent Ronald Cutcheons added. “He’s been doing this stuff for years. ‘Forever views!’ ‘I’m Beautiful Inside!’ … it’s all baloney. I can’t find a Mrs. Clean anywhere in the tax records, yet he claims she lives in every home he lists. It has to stop.”
For Sniggles, the revelation accompanies a personal pledge to remove all allusions to ‘theft,’ ‘larceny’ and ‘steals’ from his marketing.
“I don’t want to be the Realtor who cried wolf anymore,” Sniggles explained.
With several new prospects on the horizon, he won’t have to wait long for the first test of his resolve.
“I’ve got a new listing coming up in McCormick Ranch,” Sniggles said. “This one really is a ste- … I mean, an average value.”
by Paul Slaybaugh | Oct 18, 2011 | This & That
The wind whipped up and down Oak Street, depositing stray leaves at the feet of the group loitering in front of the last house at the top of the hill. The late October chill worked its way inside loose seams and under plastic masks as the motley assemblage of superheroes and ghouls faced each other in the pale glow of a streetlamp.
“I h-h-heard one kid snuck in the window and n-n-never came back out,” Peter said through chattering teeth.
Batman for the third year in a row, the caped crusader clung to the handle of a hollow, plastic pumpkin that held the evening’s haul. Despite nearly three hours of relentless trick or treating, it remained alarmingly light.
“Yeah, the P-P-Perkins kid,” Tommy gulped, makeshift Frankenstein bolts jutting out of his grey neck. “All t-they found was his b-bike.”
“And he was a sixth g-grader,” Cameron added. He carved a reverent six into the night sky with his green lightsaber.
Conversation ceased as all eyes focused on the overgrown Victorian. Rumored to have been the scene of untold horrors years ago, it sat vacant for as long as they could remember. Though none of the boys was eager to venture any closer, they were desperate. Striking out at nearly every other house on the block, the old Gribsby house was one of only two with an illuminated front porch on this All Hallow’s Eve.
But who turned on the lights?
“You go,” Peter directed Tommy, nudging him with an artificially-muscled arm.
“Me,” Tommy squealed. “Why d-don’t you go?”
“Because I’ve been up there before,” Peter countered.
“Fibber,” Timmy accused. “When?”
“A couple years ago,” Peter lied, his face warming beneath his mask. “With some b-big kids. But if you’re too chicken, Cameron will do it.”
“Uh uh,” Cameron refused, his prosthetic ears flapping crazily as he shook his head.
“Wrong, you are,” he said in his best Yoda voice. “Another Skywalker, you s-seek.”
I’ll go,” little Emily Sue said.
Engrossed in negotiation, the three older boys didn’t hear her.
The gang had been unhappy to learn that their first unchaperoned Halloween came with the burden of babysitting Peter’s kid sister, and they had tried to ditch the Powerpuff Girl at every opportunity. Unable to shake their unwanted pink shadow, they had moved on to ignoring her.
“Rock, scissors, paper for it,” Peter suggested, knowing full well that his friends always threw rock.
Emily Sue broke from the pack and approached the house, her bright attire standing out in stark contrast to the dreary backdrop.
“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot,” Peter commanded, flattening his hand on the last word.
Neither of his friends flinched.
“Uh, Peter,” Tommy said, raising an arm inside his soiled, hand-me-down sportcoat to point. “Look.”
Peter followed Tommy’s extended finger to see his sister passing through the open courtyard gate.
“Em, no,” he whisper-shouted. “Come back!”
But she didn’t listen. The floor boards groaned as Emily Sue took a hesitant step onto the decrepit porch.
“Em!”
A dense tapestry of cobwebs clung to the gabled eaves and shimmered in the flickering light. She shuffled forward.
One step.
Then another.
Each footfall scared more dust from its hiding place, stinging her eyes and tickling her nose.
She soon found herself standing before a monolithic oak door; its heavy, iron knocker well beyond her reach. Protected from the swirling wind beyond the porch, all sound disappeared save for her own shallow breathing. A glowing doorbell beckoned.
As she stretched towards it, the carriage light winked out, casting the house and Emily Sue into darkness.
… To Be Continued
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.
