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

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.”

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

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!

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.”

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.

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.”

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

(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

“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.”