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 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.
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 | 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
