Real Estate Agents Of Satan!
  

It’s been seven years since I went house hunting and I hope it’s seven more before I have to do it again. Real Estate Agents, also known as the Spawns of Satan, make a living playing the Idiot Lottery, where they hope to find the right combination of lies fitted perfectly with someone who has plenty of money but is missing part of their brain. Ideally, I think they are looking for people whose homes were smashed by giants and subsequently were awarded equally large cash settlements as a result. The amount of deception wrapped in optimism that a Real Estate Agent must project can only be accomplished on a daily basis by either serious narcotics or a firm belief that Evil will truly win out in the end, and there will be no reckoning for their lives.

 

All of this as came about by a friend of mine asking me to accompany her to a house a Real Estate Agent has promised is exactly what she is looking for. Run, I say, and keep your eyes closed on the way out. Okay, she is looking for, and has asked to see, new homes, with back yards, in the country, or at least not in the middle of town, that has central heating and air, and isn’t anywhere close to that part of town where the daily specials on crack isn’t something your neighbors discuss. She can afford some acreage, and looking for a place for a horse. The horse thing is why she’s moving.

 

What she was shown was a rundown piece of house that those in the know refer to as “remuddled”. Once a one bedroom house, this one has had a bedroom added to each end of the house, and the people who did the work were almost good enough to do it, but not quite. Like Frankenstein’s monster, the scars where the parts were put together show horrifically, and some of the handiwork done on the inside isn’t much better. The interior can only be described as a curious blend between fake western and pot head reality. One room was painted with florescent orange paint with a very light coat of white paint over that. The “master bedroom” had what appeared to be a rather large wooden covered wagon attached to the north wall, and only the explanation from the Real Estate Agent reveled this to be a bed.

 

At the risk of insulting those of you who sleep in beds shaped like large wooden covered wagons, let me say it’s quite a feat for someone to stand in front f two other adults, who haven’t been drinking heavily, and make a case for the purchase of a home that contains such a device. The wheels on the thing looked homemade, and in this case home refers to a mental home, the sides were constructed from unfinished plywood, and the base of the bed, or the floor of the wagon, was constructed from half of a wooden door ( with numbers still attached), and boards sturdy enough to hold up a cage of finches, perhaps.

 

Yet the man stood there and extolled the virtues of cutting edge living ( or sleeping) and tried to connected rugged individualism to a massive cot suited for an eight year old whose parents own a derelict saw mill. Had the kerosene lantern wired to the wooden loops above the bed not had a slight leak in it, he might have been able to distract us long enough for me not to point out the place was a fire trap. The windows were painted shut, small, sullen, and looked as if they too wanted to flee this place. The carpet was genuine wooly mammoth fur, and the bathroom was decorated in “cheapest stuff we could find” décor.

 

Perhaps we haven’t seen the same horses as other people have. Perhaps there are horses out there who would greatly love being in a back yard best suited for a small herd of Gerbils. “Fenced in” apparently means about two thirds of the yard at one time had a fence but the neighbors, who were tired of having to walk around it to break in, had trampled it down. In one of the most seriously odd things I have ever seen in any yard, there was a charcoal grill, homemade from a fifty-five gallon drum cut in half that was welded to a steel pole. The grill’s cooking surface was almost at eye level with me. How tall was the damn cook?  But we had seen enough.

 

As a class, Real Estate Agents hate me. This one would follow the herd in that direction. My comments like, “Oh dear god you’ve got to be kidding!” and “what the hell happened here?” and “People lived here?” and “can I throw up in this toilet or is it not working either?” wore him down fairly quick. Worse, my inspection of the ceiling revealed water stains. He soon began to ignore my questions until I called him on it, and that created an atmosphere of animosity which kills off any aura of hope the place might have been a new home to someone. He balked at giving me his supervisor’s name, and only the appearance of my cell phone, and the threat to call his office on the spot, rendered the man silent.

 

You will not, I told him, show this woman anything like this ever again.

 

The next outing comes next week, and she’s offered to pay me to go to each one with her. I suspect the Agent won’t be the same one, and I suspect the new one isn’t going to like me any better than the last dozen or so.

 

Take Care,

Mike


Comments:
 
Mike Firesmith   Mike Firesmith wrote
on 7/18/2008 7:42:56 PM
Dani, I have my moments

danicpa68   danicpa68 wrote
on 7/18/2008 8:58:39 AM
You are so funny. Maybe it's in the name 'Mike' LOL

Mike Firesmith   Mike Firesmith wrote
on 7/15/2008 4:51:28 AM
Hi Suzatte! Stick around, I also attack used car salesmen and door to door soul savers

SuzetteVaughn   SuzetteVaughn wrote
on 7/14/2008 11:59:16 PM
Lmao...Oh Mike. I really need to check on you more. Last time I bought a car, I walked out of three dealerships before I found a sales men who didn't first show me the vanity mirror, then tell me about the other features. Your friend is a lucky woman.

Mike Firesmith
Special Interest
Self Help
writing Mike Firesmith
I write
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Home, home on deranged
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