Hi, I’m Apple…
…and I’m Ginger.
And we’ve just got back from visiting Whisky Tango Foxtrot.
He needs cheering up. He’s had a fudging awful time of it recently and as you know he would never hurt anyone, ever.
And guess what the cause was. I’ll give you a clue. Imagine someone who has sewage for blood, manure for brains and cannot open their mouth without spewing gallons of radioactive, foul-smelling vomit. The scum of the earth. The spawn of pure evil. Worse than a politician, tabloid journalist and banker put together.
That’s right. An estate agent!
Cue clap of thunder!
Yes, Whisky Tango Foxtrot has finally started to get over his post-traumatic stress disorder and in the space of a couple of months some mother-fudging estate agent has set him back years.
It’s not good enough. Whisky Tango Foxtrot is a sensitive soul.
Well, aren’t we all?
And all he wanted to do was move house, to be nearer his auntie and as you know he would never hurt anyone, ever.
He had several estate agents round for an interview and he interrogated them while Fango, his pet tiger, watched them with not just one beady eye, but two.
He asked them, “who is most important to you, the buyer or the seller?” If anyone said the buyer, they were bodily thrown out and Fango peed all over them, regardless of who they were.
One estate agent said “I can’t conduct viewings if you’re in attendance because I can’t stand clutter.”
Whisky Tango Foxtrot told him in no uncertain terms that he was not “clutter,” he was the person who lived there and who would’ve employed him. Then Fango was sick all over him and Whisky Tango Foxtrot threw him bodily out of the house, while giving him an instant crash course on every swear word ever imagined in the history of the human race.
One estate agent said “I know all about you. I even know the date you last moved.” Cheeky sod!
Whisky Tango Foxtrot felt very offended and he told us he felt “mentally violated,” so he decided to mentally violate the estate agents and inserted a nearby broom where the sun doesn’t usually shine and where the formerly highflying estate agent might’ve thought the sun did shine out of. Having learnt his lesson, changed his arrogant attitude and learnt a few lessons in how not to annoy a potential client, the estate agent is now selling the ‘Big Issue’ with a voice raised by two octaves and grateful of a job he can do standing up.
Every estate agent he interrogated noticed how Fango got closer every time Whisky Tango Foxtrot got a little nervous. He is very sensitive and loyal to his master and is very protective. At one point, one estate agent agitated Whisky Tango Foxtrot by talking too much and Fango instinctively put his paw on the estate agent’s leg. It was a good job the armchair was a mix of piss-yellow and puke-green because that’s exactly how the estate agent decorated it. Whisky Tango Foxtrot called him “a disgusting animal” and bodily threw him out of the house.
Good job he wasn’t sat in the shite-brown armchair.
Eventually Whisky Tango Foxtrot engaged ‘F. King, B. Stard, R. Soul, S.O.B. Limited-intelligence Estate Agents.’
They said the seller was most important to them, as their clients and according to their own code of practice. They lied!
If they were a property, they would be “open plan, condemned, with plenty of space between the ears and plenty of room for improvement.”
Get the idea? Good!
Warning. The following contains images unsuitable for estate agents of a nervous disposition. Viewer discretion is required.
Anyway, Whisky Tango Foxtrot found a house he like, made an offer, which was accepted, engaged a conveyancer, got an offer, which he accepted, then all hell broke loose.
Despite now working with his conveyancer, the estate agents kept on phoning and e-mailing daily and the buyers insisted on moving before he could.
They were pushy gits and expected him to move straight away, before having a survey, land search or anything because of their buyers’ mortgage. The stress started to get too much for him. Even Fango was off his food. His conveyancer told them to back off and wait. The estate agents kept on at him almost daily, biased in the buyers’ favour. He warned them, so did his conveyancer. They didn’t take the hint. So, Whisky Tango Foxtrot decided to put the frighteners on the estate agents just for fun. And who in their right mind could blame him? You see, everything came to a head when he received a red e-mail from the estate agents, which started off his post-traumatic stress disorder again, telling him to hurry up and get out of his legal property and into rented accommodation. Poor dab!
So, he rang the estate agent and said “can you come round for a little chat, please?” He did. Whisky Tango Foxtrot sat him in an armchair. He decided to use the shite-brown one, just in case. Fango stood guard. Whisky Tango Foxtrot pulled out a penknife, with absolutely no intention of hurting him and said “you sent me a red e-mail. I didn’t appreciate that. It brought on my post-traumatic stress disorder and I was getting better.” As the sweat started to pour off the estate agent he opened his shirt a button at a time, slowly and said “now I’m going to turn you into a red e-mail too because I’m going to write my reply on your chest with this.”
There was suddenly a farty smell in the air and the estate agent ran out of the house, screaming. Whisky Tango Foxtrot roared with laughter and Fango just roared. Since then he’s got his conveyancer to tell them again and this time they took the hint. He’s decided not to move after all. His auntie’s close enough! We brought him a present today. An Action Man dressed as an estate agent, for him to stick pins into. He loves it.
Before we go, we’d just like to say estate agents this thick are very rare. Don’t have nightmares. Aren’t they?
O.K. goodnight folks. See you next Tuesday.
themaster1968 