For some crazy ass reason, I’ve decided to write a blog.  I don’t know if anyone will ever read the silly things I’m probably going to write about, but I never thought I would have 681 Facebook friends either so, who knows?  The burning question for me is how did six hundred and eighty one people find me?

Which leads me to this motherfucker Brandon, who writes me monthly letters, old school, stating the same thing on yellow notebook paper:

Dear Timothy,

My name is Brandon and I would like to buy your house at:  _ _ _ _ X Street, Alameda, CA  94501.

Please call me today at (415) _ _ _ – _ _ _ _.

Please call as soon as you can,

Brandon

Well, you know what Brandon?  I don’t want to sell you my house and I’m not going to call you.  I don’t know you.  I probably don’t like you and even if I did, I wouldn’t sell you my house.  So, fuck off.

The more disturbing question is how did you find out I owned a house in Alameda?  This is about as disturbing as finding out your football coach likes to shower with 8-year old boys.  Keep away from my junk!

I mean how stupid are American homeowners?  Brandon, do people actually call you?  I can only imagine the phone conversation.

Hi Brandon it’s Charlie.  Thanks so much for your letter.  Yeah, I’ll sell you my house.  Why don’t you tell me your hotel room number and I’ll bend over and take it up the wazoo and give you my deed right now.  No credit cards.  Cash only.  Bye!

Seriously, dude?  C’mon, man, whatever happened to the good, old fashioned, way to buy and sell real estate?  You find an Agent, you look at properties, you secure financing, you submit an offer, your offer is accepted, you go through escrow and you sign the papers.  Has that process died for you like all of the opportunities for love?

You have to be pretty fucking desperate to write a letter to homeowners begging them to sell you their house.  I pity you, man.  It feels like you’re trying to buck the system and it doesn’t feel right.  At least, not to me.  You have to earn money the old fashioned way, as an old Smith Barney ad used to say.

So, fuck off, Brandon.  Please never write to me again.  My house and my junk are not for sale.