Dear realtors: Shut up

Realtors allatime be sending me emails asking to buy my house. Stuffing proof of their incredible sales record into my mailbox, under my door. Begging me to let them sell my house.

Well, listen, realtors, boys and girls: I don’t want to sell my house.

Least of all to a real-estate agent.

So back off. Shut up. Leave me alone.

I ain’t gonna sell this house that I live in till my toes turn up. And then, maybe.

But I swear to you on a stack of Bibles, I ain’t gonna sell it to a real estate agent: least of all one who barged in on my life knowing my name and street and email address and how much I paid for the house, and how much my neighbors’ houses just sold for, but who don’t know nothing else about me. Or my neighbors.

And for the record, I don’t know anything more about you — you … real estate agents who hound me, whose names I have on file — but I know all about you that I need to know.

Pluzwidge, I don’t see why realtors should be allowed to patent their so-called profession, allowing them to use a capital R, while other people, Refugees, for instance, or Writers, are not allowed to Copyright Their Name, or Status, or Suffering, or Whatever.

So what do you think, r/Realtors?

Capital R or just an r?

And what difference could it make?

And why did you try to patent a word?

And why was the patent granted?

It’s not your word. It’s just a word.

Grabby, grabby, realtors! Little aquarium fish.

It’s not your word. It’s as much mine as it is yours. (I know, that’s an old playground taunt, so I tell you what, realtors, why don’t you grow up?)

Here are some other ads I’d prefer not to see:

The online ad instructs me: “If you have an enlarged prostate, do this …”

Bob replies: “Why don’t you shut up and leave me alone.”

The online ad asks: “Do you have trouble urinating?”

Bob replies: “Well, no, but what business is that of yours?

“Do you?”

The online ad demands: “Click here for great savings!”

Bob replies: “Why don’t you go fuck yourself, Russian warship.”

The online ad asks: “Have you thought about your death?”

Bob replies: “They pay you to do this, man? Can you give me your agent’s number? I’ve got a lot of rude questions I’d like to ask you.”

The online ad asks: “Girls! Girls! Girls! Are you looking for a Russian wife?”

Bob replies: “Are you asking if I’m a girl, and if I want a Russian wife? No, and no.”

The online ad asks: “9 out of 10 of our customers report complete satisfaction.”

Bob replies: “Nine out of 10 of your customers sound easy. May I have their names and email addresses? I am a Nigerian prince being held captive by Capital One bank. I have a banking proposition for them that could be quite lucrative.”

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