What is a word that rhymes with "stuck" and means real estate agent?

For rehearsal dinner - cue the Sweeney Todd music - we're roasting real estate agent on a spit over a crackling fire of burning lawyers. Be careful of the flaring flames! That's brimstone.

On Sunday, while so many of our good friends were chatting and drinking and eating at our holiday open house, the Real Estate Agent called (REA). We were cuddling other's babies and pouring more chardonnay. This is the guy who showed us Seaside because it was place where the owner allowed people to hold events. Who assured us repeatedly that the size of our wedding wasn't too large.

When I discovered the message on Monday, this is what I heard.

"Uh, yeah, John. Matt Ball here [REA. Probably not his real name. Because why flame the guy, right? Oh, who am I kidding? That's his name, the no-good rhymes-with-stuck]. I just talked to the owner of the Seaside place and he's -- I dunno, I guess he's been talking to people. About liability and stuff like that. I dunno. I tried to tell him it'd be okay and umm. I dunno. He's just not, you know.... I'm gunna check out another place that probably won't work, so give me a call."

No apology, regrets, leads, or other ideas. But then on Monday.

J: "Matt, this is not good. We've spent a couple months planning, sending tent companies to measure. There's no way?"

M: "Uhh, no. No." [Sssssss. That's the sound of cell phone signals hissing through towers and bouncing off Cape Cod lighthouses.]

J: "I'm really disappointed. What can we do?"

M: "Uhhh. [Sssssss.]

J: "Okay, I'm speechless now. I mean, that's it? What about other places?"

M: "Oh, oh. there's another five-bedroom, but the side yard is all trees. I'll check it out for you."

J: "Matt, you told us this place was open to weddings. You've been talking to the owner for nearly two months. What happened? I mean I'm speechless. What the heck?"

M: "[Sssssss.]"

The silence grows and expands and takes in all of desultory work he has done for us, the calls returned late or not at all, the glib reassurances, the thinly veiled efforts to help us help him get a commission, the feeling that if we're fish in a barrel you could at least have the courtesy to shoot us because we're dying of suffocation now.

All I wanted was a shallow acknowledgment that we'd invested our wedding hopes in the place. That I would be feeling pretty pissed about the snatch and grab of 63 Seaside. A little false boot-licking, maybe, which I thought was part of the REA licensing exam. A nod to human feeling of any kind would have been welcome.

M: "[Sssssss.]"

J: "Matt? Hello, Matt?"

M: "Uhh. I'm gunna check that other place, so...."

J: "Okay, good. That's great. You keep on it. Thanks. Thanks."

But all's well that ends well. Next year, TWIL and I will be married and Matt Ball will still be a real estate agent.

Did I mention how much I like the house in Pocasset? How beautiful the lawn? How rare the natural chapel of spruce in front? Oh, I will. I will.