Real Estate Ninja

Maybe you want a BIG NAME or a fast-talking real estate huckster who sees your shoes as being occupied by a dollar sign. Perhaps it is a giant national real estate monolith you seek with brand recognition and legions of agents ready to tell you exactly what you want, even if you didn’t know that it was, in fact, what you wanted. In reality this is what most seek; to be told “You are the most beautiful girl in this whole bar, come back to my place and listen to Jack Johnson and drink wine from my crystal chalice as I whisper reassuring local sales figures into your ear”. Only to leave the following morning dazed, confused, with sticky thighs and some cash in paw. But there are those who seek truth, who search for The Way, knowing an alternative path exists where you may see cake, and yes child, eat it too. He works in shadows and speaks in metaphors. When others zig, he zags. Your enemy stands in bold defiance and the next moment his headless body falls to the ground with a dull thud. He operates amid the rustle of leaves, behind the wind but gone before the calm. Who is this apparition? Does this shadowy figure exist or was it a figment of your imagination?

Are you looking to sell? Do you want to buy a home? Maybe you want to rock and fucking roll while you do both? Perhaps you should stop pissing and moaning about, curled up in your liquor bottle with mortal fear of the sales process, cease whimpering like a blithering pussy and fucking call Jim B! Worked for us. We were hiding like little bitches in the bathroom for fear the big bad real estate bullies would steal our pathetic fucking lunch money. Then we decided to quit letting the world dictate to us, and called Jim B. Do you want your real estate agent to show up in casual clothes on short notice and tell you that all the unique challenges of your real estate sale are about as worrisome as your date’s curfew on prom night? Then call Jim B! When you walk your agent around your house for the initial tour do you want them to point at the old shoe you use to prop open your bathroom door because it closes on its own and say “I like what you’ve done here”? Then call Jim B. Do you want a real estate “team” with 7 different points of contact to hopelessly ensnare you in their sticky web of communications? Then DON’T call Jim B. Jim B doesn’t need a fucking team. Jim B is sales, communications, marketing, minor repair, psychologist, judge, jury and fucking executioner. Team? Phhhhffffftttttt. Jim B don’t need no stinking team. When you are sweating through the ass crack of your trousers waiting to hear back what miserable, low-ball, down market, be happy someone will even fucking agree to have sex with you, ass-jamming offer price you should publish on your home, do you want your agent to fire back with a sunny-as-hell price that frankly you wonder behind his back if he is on meth? If yes, then fucking well call Jim B. When you get an email from your agent with a link to the page where he and his photographer posted the photos from the very home you live in, do you want to look at those photos and exclaim, “Goddamn it, I want to live in that fucking place!”? If that is what you want to say, then please, for the love of God, call Jim B. Now, this part might not interest you, but I’ll throw it out there anyway. Do you want to have a signed sales contract in your sweaty palms for 98.5% of what you formerly thought was a hopelessly optimistic offer price dreamt up by your glass-is-half-full agent, IN LESS THAN 96 HOURS? Do you? Is that what you fucking want?!?! Then CALL JIM B! When you are becoming recklessly enamored with a vintage place that frankly kind of looks like shit, all because it is located in the middle of Lincoln Park, and the rather slimy listing agent tells you that there has “absolutely never been any water damage”, do you want your agent to say directly to this snake, “Oh, well then what is this clear evidence of water damage here, here, and over here?”? Then. Call. Jim B, it’s really that simple. When you find a house you like in a neighborhood you want to live in, you decide you’re going to bid on it, even though it is far beyond your intended budget. When your agent sees it, do you want him to get down on his hands and knees in the basement with a flashlight, fight through cobwebs and muck, and inform you that the HVAC system is in excess of 30 years old, the foundation has severe fissures and is pushing into your basement, oh and also there is a pretty insidious seepage issue of which there is ample evidence….so you do what you have to do, but you could be looking at not only being out over your skis on purchase price, but are also staring directly into the tits of some pretty serious home maintenance projects before you even drink your first beer in the backyard? Even though no one wants to have their keys taken from them at a party when they’re hammered and just want to show Larry how fucking fast their Mustang is, Jim B will. When you ultimately happen upon the perfect home for your family, even though you may not have really been looking for it there, and the purchase price is in excess of $100K less than you were ultimately willing to pay, do you want your agent to tell you it is pretty goddamned perfect despite this resulting in his being paid significantly less commission as a result knowing full well he could talk you into that smoking hot neighborhood with the perfect tits and tight ass that you just know you’ll die trying to keep up with the demands of, without even much salesmanship to get you into it? Is it, is that what you fucking want? Then please, pretty fucking please, CALL JIM B! Finally, when you make your offer and the seller counters, and you are such a pansy that you want to pay it immediately, do you want your agent to step in (multiple times) and say, “Hey, you can’t go giving head on the first date. Whaddya got after that if you do?”, leading to even thousands more in perceived savings? If this appeals to you, I’d say go ahead and phone Jim B.

Listen, if you live for the thrill of wondering when your agent will get back to you on your inquiry, and the mystery of not knowing which member of their team will respond……..If you secretly love the debased feeling of waking up from the following night haunted by dreams that may have been real with your panties around your ankles and fingertip bruises on your legs, on the floor of a frat house utility room…….If you sleep easier knowing that you are part of something so gigantic it can barely keep itself fed through cannibalism, then by all means, don’t call Jim B. But if you seek the cool, calculated guidance of a true Real Estate Ninja who kills silently and is gone before anyone knows something happened, I’d probably recommend fishing your smart phone out of your pocket or purse, and dialing 555-JIMB. There are no guarantees in this world, but if you aren’t happy in the end that you did, I’d be pretty fucking surprised and also a little bit suspicious that you are probably just an unrealistic asshole.

*It must be noted that Jim B is a Michigan Wolverines sports fan. I fully understand this is a serious character flaw, on par with pederasty and selling baseball cards to kids, but I was ultimately able to look past it. If it is a deal-breaker for you personally, then don’t call Jim B.

**As always, the full names of the innocent are protected by me so as to not subject said person to the horrors of having an important Google search of their name lead to this…..

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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