It's Time for An Upgrade

Hi. I'm a Realtor. I would like to sell your home. I know, it's forward of me to say that but I am a young man building a business here. The only reason I am here today is because I am driven to succeed. I don't have time to dance around the subject. My time is my stock and trade, and I'll sell my time and expertise to you for a 6% commission. But I have to know you're serious or I'm not interested.

Like, for example, what's with the For Sale By Owner stuff? Are you serious or what? Do you really want to sell your house or are you just working something out?

Is it a threat you made to your wife during an argument? And now you have to live up to it or she won't ever do what you say again because she will no longer respect you?

Is that it? Because that's the only reason someone would decide to sell their home on their own. Do you realize the potential liability you are exposing yourself to?

And I've got to tell you, buddy, judging from your furnishings - and I have to guess they're furnishings or assume something is incredibly wrong with my vision and that frightens me - you can't afford a 1/8th butt cheek of exposure.



What do you say in your head Mr. Married to Mrs.' We'll-have-to-use-the-paper-plates-once-everyone-gets-here-because-we-don't-have-enough-glass-dinner-plates? Do you say, "Oh, if something comes up after the sale, we'll take care of it." And I suppose that kind of confidence comes from the fact that you have a team of impeccably dressed lawyers waiting in your one car attached garage for the slightest hint that you're in trouble and at such time they will unleash such an assault on the perpetrator as to forever change the criminal justice system as we know it today? I hope it's warm out there in the garage for those lawyers or did you just give the team a space-cadet heater?


Why am I being such an asshole? Because I don't think you're serious. I think you're pussyfooting. I think it's some kind of passive-aggressive bullshit you're putting out to the world and I'm giving it right back to you, aggressive-aggressive style. Because, you know, when you put a For Sale sign on your house, you get people's hopes up. There is no other way to slice it.

For example: a woman drives by, sees your house. She's recently divorced, from an abusive husband and living in a motel. She's depressed and angry and waiting to get on with her life. Night after night she's living in the motel room with the dark brown wool curtains so full of cigarette smoke that if you bump them, they ash. She squats above the toilet because the seat is so old and filthy she can't get it clean, no matter how hard she scrubs. And then there's the deeply disturbed industrial orange carpeting festering beneath her feet that she swears can move on its own it's so stained and full of DNA. And she's living in this shit-hole all because she has taste and she can't find a house with enough charm so she wants it so much that she makes an offer. And she has the money - that's why she's living in this petri dish. She knows she has taste and that taste costs money. She only got so much in the divorce from that asshole. He was abusive but he was rich. And so traumatized is she from his abuse that she never wants to be married again, so she's hanging on to that money like a shark to a surfer's leg. And she's feeling all this, and has gone for a drive, right into your neighborhood because she feels drawn there for some strange reason and then she sees your sign. She's in love again. She knows, while looking at your house, that if she can love a home this much, she can love a man again this much. She sees it as a sign. And she chuckles to herself, "Oh, how funny - it IS a sign. And here I'd been asking for a sign from the Universe and the Universe has given me this SIGN!" She's talking about your For Sale By Owner sign. For the first time in many years, the healing has finally begun!


So she gets out of her car then and there, marches up your front walk and knocks on your door. And you answer it and she says, "Hello. I absolutely adore your house. I must have it. Let me give you $50,000 over your asking price. No - don't say another word, just accept this cashier's check. Please!"

And you can't believe your eyes. You've done it. You've not only sold your house for a ton of money (you knew when you priced it that you overpriced it), you're right and your wife is wrong. Then there are things you know are wrong with the house, too, but most importantly, there are things wrong with it you don't know about.

So you accept her offer and have her sign the ten-year old sales contract you bought at the stationery store the last time you threatened to sell the house during an argument. Then you and the divorced-lady-on-the-verge are in contract and in escrow. So you say to yourself, "Ha-ha, much man am I! Ruler of my domain and layer of the law! I'm practically a lawyer!" And your wife is not only no longer pissed at you, but she's happy with the extra money and impressed at how you handled it. Not just impressed with a little "i" - impressed with a big, erect, pulsing, long, hard ejaculating "I." And you feel like you're fuckin' Tom Jones again man. Suddenly, you've got a big cock, tight pants and you're humming "Kiss" by that little purple faggot in your puny little head. And the sweet little divorced buyer is thinking to herself, "My, what a wonderful day - and how wonderful that I feel so lucid for it even though I have stopped taking my medication."

And escrow closes, without the benefit of one Realtor's eyes on the contract, and you've moved out, and you meet with the sweet buyer lady to give here the key. And you're both feeling so good, you give here your new address so she can stay in touch. You hug and say in unison, "Goodbye! It was SO wonderful meeting you!" And you laugh together.

You buy a bigger house with the extra money. You stretch yourself a bit - why not? - you're a big real estate tycoon all of a sudden. You can afford it. The wife wants to remodel the new house a bit - add a deck, a pool with a cabana for entertaining. She's suddenly interested in cooking as well as fucking. And she wants the best possible stove for the cabana. She's going to cook out there for parties. So the cabana needs nice teak French doors that can be opened up while she's entertaining next to her tiled black bottom pool. And you say, what the fuck! We're rich now! But really, you're broke now and months have passed and your wife is getting ready to host her first party in her new entertainment pavilion. Thankfully you didn't spend that money on a Realtor's commission or lawyers or anything.


Meanwhile, the gay divorce' is enjoying your old home. It has a nice, vintage charm. Like your wife, she has a vision. the woman-no-longer-feeling-the-need-to-take-her-medication-anymore-or-call-her-shrink-because-she's-so-happy decides it's time for an upgrade. She starts with the kitchen because she feels it is the soul of the house; the warm womb that took her in after such a trying time. Physically, she hasn't been feeling so well lately. She suspects she has bronchitis, but she's never had it this bad. She believes the house is healing her, clearing out old, destructive energies. She begins work on the house to get her mind off her illness. So she starts with the kitchen, which is directly below the upstairs bathroom. Good thing she doesn't know about the time your wife left the bath running and flooded the whole goddamn place. And you decided to just mop it up and forget about it.

And as her contractor, the wannabe building inspector, the one who's brother is a real estate attorney, opens up the walls in her kitchen, he comes across the most toxic mold, the likes of which he has never seen. The mold has spread throughout the walls. The entire house will have to be taken back to frame.

The gay divorce' is not feeling so gay anymore. She's coming after you buddy. She is sick as hell from the mold, and the fungus is the salad that will soon be covered with the blood from your bank accounts as dressing. And so is the contractors' real estate attorney brother whom she is now fucking. She's going to start getting in touch with you again real soon - or, at least, her boyfriend-at-law will.

And that, Sir, is the anal-thrusting style kind of liability that you are exposing your little tight virgin ass too.

With a Realtor on your team, you may still get it in the sphincter a little but at least you'll be practicing safe real estate. Think of me as a condom for your next escrow.


So, for the last time, are you serious ab out selling your home? My time is precious to me. I don't have time to dance around the subject. My time is my stock and trade, and I'll sell my time to you for a 6% commission. But I have to know you're serious or I'm not interested.