On any given Saturday: How real estate agents became rock stars


“Sydney’s property market is a cluster fuck.” – Captain Obvious.

But hidden beneath the glaring issue of extreme housing unaffordability is a dark truth far more concerning for societal structure as we know it—that real estate agents have become rock stars.

Men and women alike are dropping to their knees just for the opportunity to pay $100k over asking price on a Dee Why park bench. Which in turn has allowed agents the country over to come out to their friends and families and sheepishly admit what they do for a living; mothers no longer ashamed to tell their babies what daddy does for a living.

And like the rise of Black Eyed Peas, we have no one but ourselves to blame.

By ignoring emails, not returning phone calls, making us stand in line just to get a glimpse of them on any given Saturday, real estate agents have turned half of Australia into super fans, desperate to throw our dignity aside and our bodies at whoever is hosting the 11.10 open.

It’s classic treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen tactics. And negging’s the obvious next step.

We’re living in a sad time when we expend more effort to impress an agent than a future wife or husband. It used to be you’d message an agent late night and before you had a chance to put the phone down they were sexting you—figuratively—with everything they’d allow you to do to them to get the price down. Now we’re trying to fuck our agents and treat our future exes with the same discontent we would a parking inspector.

Of course, it’s not all the agents’ fault. The sellers are cunts, too.

But seriously, just because the agents are doing the devil’s work, it doesn’t make them bad people—not all of them anyway. Everyone deserves to make a decent living. And sellers deserve to profit off a smart investment.

Thing is, trying to convey to others the deep levels of anxiety that consumes one daily upon shooting an email to an agent only to go ignored has been impossible. Until now.

It hit this hack at about 11pm on a big Saturday night. Dealing with real estate agents in 2017 is akin to texting a drug dealer—four times a day for months on end. Only never to get the goods. Your immediate happiness depends on them and only them. It hangs by that well-crafted text message you’ve sent. And the follow-up one confirming they got the message because your phone was “playing up”.

They’re the supply. You’re the demand. But instead of $300 a bag, they’re advertising it at $190-250, then selling it to the highest bidder at $450+.

Of course, the moment the market slows you’ll be getting texts every Friday afternoon letting you know they’re in your area and have something if you want it.

What can we do about it? Fucking suck it.

According to every “expert analyst” since 2013, the market’s due to crash. But a conspiracy theorist would suggest that was a concerted effort to stir fear among homebuyers and create the current frenzy which shows no signs of slowing.

Let’s all move to Mexico.

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