by Paul Slaybaugh | Aug 20, 2011 | This & That
Joyce DeMannon traced a white glove-encased fingertip over a lamp shade and inspected it for residue. Satisfied, she gave a curt, reluctant nod to the head of the maid staff.
“Turndown service every morning, of course,” the chambermaid informed her dour guest. “Standard mint on the pillow, or you can inform my staff of a particular preference.”
She turned on a smartly polished heel and led her charge to the master bath.
“As our baths have all been retrofitted with steam settings, you needn’t leave your own room to indulge in a full, luxurious spa experience. Complimentary hot rocks, cucumber water and sea salts are all available through the concierge’s desk.”
Joyce inspected the facilities in silence with hands clasped behind her back.
“Towels on the floor or in the hamper to indicate you wish them laundered, please,” the chambermaid continued in a clipped, practiced cadence.
“And the minibar,” Joyce rasped in a voice as dehydrated as her sloughed, bronze skin.
“There is absolutely nothing mini about it, madam,” the chambermaid responded on cue as they made their way back into the hallway. “Our bars are full-sized and fully stocked with the finest spirits and liquers. Hand-rolled cigars are located in the adjacent humidor. All complimentary, of course.”
“Virginia Slims are available through the concierge,” she quickly added, well-adapted to intuiting the unique needs of her guests.
“Cable or satellite,” Joyce croaked.
“Both, of course,” the chambermaid replied, mildly offended. “Along with movies on demand, video games and unlimited wi-fi access.”
The chambermaid slid open the glass arcadia door in the living room and stepped out onto the patio.
“Landscapers come at one o’clock on the dot every afternoon, so as not to disrupt your sleep.”
Joyce looked down the sharp ridge of her eroding nose at the khaki-clad laborer with a leaf-blower strapped to his back. He was dripping sweat under a ratty straw hat that made her itch.
Another curt nod indicated her appeasement.
“The fitness center and pool are open twenty four hours a day,” the chambermaid informed her upon reentering the living room.
“Every guest is assigned a personal superintendent for any and all repair needs,” she continued. “Simply call me at any hour of the day, for any reason whatsoever, and I will have him here within five minutes.”
“And group activities,” Joyce prompted. “I presume there to be outings and entertainment available nightly?”
“Certainly, madam,” the chambermaid responded. “There are shuttles on call to take our guests to and from sporting events, theater shows, restaurants and nightclubs. We also have nightly luaus, bridge tournaments and countless other activities for our guests to enjoy.”
A knock at the door interrupted them.
“Ah, that must be Javier,” the chambermaid surmised, a faint smile touching her lips.
“Javier?”
“Your cabana boy,” the chambermaid replied, adjusting her costume-like uniform and crossing the fifteen steps to the door.
Joyce felt her hands move to her head, smoothing her bobbed, bottle-blonde hair of their own accord. Her formerly lifeless gray eyes flashed in nervous anticipation. Many years had past since she had last held the undivided attention of a handsome, young man.
The chambermaid cast a devilish grin over her shoulder as her slender fingers wrapped around the door knob. Slowly, ever so slowly, she twisted, reveling in her charge’s evident discomfort. At last, when the knob would turn no further, she paused, and tugged open the door.
A khaki flash accompanied the deeply-tanned figure that entered. Joyce only realized she had been holding her breath when she blew it out in disgust.
“This,” she spit. “This is Javier?”
She jerked an indignant thumb at the same rumpled, middle-aged landscaper who had been working in the backyard moments earlier.
“Yep,” the chambermaid answered. “And he’s here to plunge the hall toilet.”
“I, I don’t understand,” Joyce stammered.
“It’s really quite simple, Ms. DeMannon,” the chambermaid replied. “Javier here is the landscaper, plumber, electrician, A/C tech and general handyman. When stuff breaks, he fixes it.”
“But what about my cabana boy,” Joyce wailed.
“There is no maid service, Ms. DeMannon,” the chambermaid continued, removing her “Beatrice” name tag and dropping it into a blouse pocket. “There is no 24 hour gym. There is no Olympic pool. There is no mint on the pillow, and there is, most assuredly, no cabana boy.”
“But, but,” Joyce sputtered.
“This is a rental townhome, Ms. DeMannon, not the Hyatt,” the listing agent informed the stricken tenant.
She withdrew her Planet Real Estate pin from another frilly pocket of the ridiculous blouse and affixed it where the other had been, effectively ending the ruse.
“Your agent would have done well to direct you to one of our wonderful local resorts if you require concierge service,” she chastised. “Perhaps, those accommodations might be a bit more to your liking than our modest eight hundred dollar a month condo.”
“I get it,” Joyce sneered. “This is about my walk-through list, isn’t it?”
She produced and unfolded a multi-page document from her imitation Coach purse.
A gurgle, followed by a full flush, emanated from the hall bath.
“Ah, yes,” the agent answered. “Your list. From the sound of things, I’d say Javier just took care of it.”
“But there are two hundred and thirty seven items that require immediate attention!”
“Two hundred and thirty six,” the agent corrected. “And we will not be repainting the hallway to a ‘more appealing tan,’ stripping the wallpaper border in the breakfast nook, replacing the vertical blinds with shutters, installing ceiling fans or addressing any of the other assorted nonsense erroneously deemed deficient.”
With that, she turned for the door at the same time the handyman emerged from the bathroom. She paused and looked back at the forlorn tenant before the pair slipped out into the midday sun.
“But if the sh*&^%r backs up again? We’ll send Javier right over.”
by Paul Slaybaugh | Jul 24, 2011 | This & That
(Scottsdale, AZ) – Coke versus Pepsi. Republicans versus Democrats. Ginger versus Mary Ann.
You can throw the Real Estate recovery onto the list of great American debates.
According to recent polling* of consumer confidence by the Fallacy-Inclined Bureau of Statistics (FIBS), 59% of Americans believe that now is a “very good” time to buy a home. This represents the highest such percentage since 2006. On the other hand, 74% of Americans “strongly believe” that failure by Congress to raise the debt ceiling prior to August 2nd will derail the economic recovery and doom housing to the third ring of hell for all eternity.
Taken together, sampling indicates that consumer confidence in the Real Estate market is improving, but remains tenuous at best. While 52% of those polled “somewhat believe” that Real Estate values are likely to have bottomed out, 43% “somewhat strongly believe” a double dip in housing values is imminent due to inflation, stagflation, conflagration, alien invasion, Tina Yothers, tofu, Justin Bieber, Bigfoot, zombies or some combination of all.
97% “strongly believe” that the US is still within a hummingbird’s fart of The Great Depression.
For the 28th consecutive year, Admiral Ackbar believes “it’s a trap.”
Filed by Paul Slaybaugh, Disassociative Press.
*Phone survey of twenty voting-eligible US citizens who self-identify as Josiah “Jed” Bartlet supporters conducted between 1pm and 1:15pm PST on 4/20/11.
Margin of error: +/- 100%
by Paul Slaybaugh | May 18, 2011 | This & That
In a stunning reversal of internal policy, the Internet has asked that bloggers stop adding new content to the collective mainframe.
“It’s gotten out of hand,” Zachary Omega of the Internet confided when reached for comment. “We didn’t think it was possible for there to be too many blogs about the rigors of raising abused beagles in single-parent households, but we were wrong. The first-person, anecdotal nonsense has completely drowned out legitimate commentary.”
To reestablish value to its searchable content, the Internet is asking users to refrain from launching new blogs and social media accounts at this time. The embargo is voluntary for the time being, but Omega foresees a day in the near future when the effort to scale back the banality on the interwebs is not only mandatory, but enforceable by martial law.
“It’s a freaking joke,” Omega confided. “I’m in charge of the coding that separates the wheat from the chaff in online data. Me. Do you have any idea of how much chaff is floating around out there? How am I supposed to send someone to the latest reputable news source when ninety nine out of a hundred entries are posted by some twelve year old kid in Marietta, Georgia who gets picked last in dodgeball?”
Originally designed to connect people from all over the world, the Internet has done exactly that. Unfortunately, the free-flowing exchange of ideas and information has come with a steep cost: quality control.
“I’ve got nothing against cats. I’ve got nothing against kids,” Omega said. “But if I have to read one more missive about Mr. Whiskers’ new flea collar, or the scorching pink-eye outbreak that is plaguing little Joey’s preschool, I’m going to jam an overheated server straight up a soccer mom’s &$$ while I enjoy a refreshing orange wedge.”
Omega did not reserve his ire for familial pulp. In fact, there is one demographic in particular he described as “the bane of the online experience.”
“Realtors … I mean, seriously,” Omega stated. “How many more property listings in Bum Fudge, South Dakota or riveting articles about re-painting the baby’s room prior to selling a home do we really need to read? Five hundred thousand jamokes posting the same ‘Seven Secret Tips to Selling in a Down Market!’ … how novel. Maybe next we can have an authoritative list of instructions for walking and chewing bubble gum.”
Reached for comment, the National Association of Realtors® noted that now is the best time to buy a home in the history of earth.
– Paul Slaybaugh, Disassociative Press © 2011
by Paul Slaybaugh | Apr 20, 2011 | This & That
(Washington DC) – In a statement released this morning, the National Association of Realtors® announced a new initiative aimed at curbing abuse in photographic representation amongst its membership in the virtual sphere.
“This initiative has been ten years in the making,” according to NAR spokesman,Trevor Null. “Ever since Realtors entered the online space en masse, we have been fielding complaints from the public about misleading avatars.”
Jane DeVannon of Surprise, AZ filed one such complaint back in 2009.
“We were nervous first time buyers,” Mrs. DeVannon explained. “Having never been through the process, we had no idea what to expect and knew that we needed to hire a Real Estate agent we could trust to guide us through the process. So we did what we always do when we have a critical decision to make. We Googled it.”
With over 87% of today’s home buyers starting their searches online, per NAR statistics, the DeVannons’ story is a common one.
“We settled on a nice looking gentleman, about forty or forty two, with two darling children in his profile picture. Imagine our surprise when an obese seventy five year old with a goiter the size of an Olsen twin showed up to our first appointment. We tried to make the best of it, but we could just never get past the initial lie,” Mrs. DeVannon related.
“We have long had a reputation problem with the general public,” Null admitted. “Grossly misrepresenting our appearances in online marketing has only served to exacerbate the institutional mistrust. I mean, when you think you’re hiring Gary Cooper, and you get Gary Coleman, it’s a problem.”
According to Initiative UB-FUGLY, all Realtors® will be required to update their avatars monthly, without benefit of Photoshop or similar photo editing software that can alter true appearance.
“And none of this downward pointing camera angle bullshit,” Null expanded. “If you have three chins, the consumer needs to see three chins.”
Penalties for failing to comply with the new requirements will be severe, including mandatory use of DMV photos for first time offenders. Proof of ownership for any/all pets and children in a Realtor’s avatar must be furnished prior to Internet use. Nieces and nephews are off limits.
The news comes too late for the DeVannons, but they are hopeful that future buyers will be spared their painful lesson in what the NAR refers to as “photo synthesis.”
“We think he rented the kids,” Mrs. DeVannon added.
– Filed by Paul Slaybaugh, BSRE News © 2011
by Paul Slaybaugh | Apr 19, 2011 | This & That
“What do you mean I can’t back out on the inspection,” James “Jamo” Monahan demanded. “Say the frigging icemaker doesn’t work or something.”
“Like I told you earlier, James, er, I mean Jamo,” Agnes DeMerrit explained to her disingenuous client on the other end of the line. “There is no second bite at the apple once repairs are agreed to by both parties. Besides, your ten days were up two weeks ago.”
“Financing?”
“Your loan is approved,” Agnes responded, her short, grey hair losing pigment by the syllable.
“What if I go buy a car to screw up my ratios,” Jamo offered.
“That would be bad faith, James, er, I mean Jamo,” Agnes chastised. “It will cost you your earnest money.”
“Okay, the appraisal,” Jamo suggested. “We can still back out on the appraisal, right?”
“Appraisal came back at purchase price,” Agnes informed him.
“But you said it was ‘highly unlikely’ to appraise at the sales price,” Jamo exploded in her ear. “Now you’re telling me that I’m stuck in a deal at a price I never intended to pay? You listen to me, and you listen to me good. You better find me a way out of this contract or so help me God-“
Agnes pulled the phone away from her ear and took a deep breath. She despised working with investors. Absolutely despised it. Had she not run headlong into the driest spell of a forty year Real Estate career, she would have sent this creep packing so fast his Grecian Formula Plus infused head would have spun inside the raised collar of his pink imitation Polo shirt.
As a rule, she preferred buyers who were actually interested in buying.
“Agnes? Agnes?”
Her client’s strident voice sounded small and tinny from a distance. She took a moment to withdraw something from the desk drawer of her home office before putting the phone back to her ear. She absently unwound a snarl in the cord as she spoke.
“All done?”
Jamo’s silence answered for him.
“Good. Now I’m going to tell you exactly how we are going to get you out of this contract with your earnest funds intact so that you can pursue that new short sale in BFE that just hit the market this morning. If you’re ready to put on your big boy pants and listen, that is.”
“I’m listening.”
“Really listening?
“Yes, I’m really listening,” Jamo assured her.
“No, James,” Agnes rebuked. “I mean really listening.”
“Look, I’m listening, okay,” Jamo replied with exasperation. “I’m really, really listening. The world has stopped outside of this conversation. I’m on pins and freaking needles. Now pretty please with a cherry on top, just tell me what to do!”
Agnes whispered, barely audible.
“What,” Jamo asked.
She whispered again, slightly louder.
“What,” Jamo asked again, straining to understand.
Agnes waited a beat before giving the air horn poised over the mouthpiece of the phone one long, shrill blast and terminating the call.
“I said you’re fired, Jay-mo.”
