One of the very first houses I looked at last year, in my quest for a new abode, was a 1920s two-story on the first day of its listing.
My realtor met me at the address, and together we headed inside. We sensed something "off" right away, since the door was unlocked and there was a cigarette laying beside the sink.
We called out and looked around. Finding no one, we decided to just spin through as quickly as possible. The tour was interrupted about a minute later when a very disheveled, very inebriated man wandered inside. He wanted to tell us all about the house. Loudly.
Turns out he was the owner, who happened to live across the street and had decided to fix up and sell his second property instead of renting it out. He slurrily explained all the improvements he'd made -- personally -- to each and every corner of this "nice fucking house."
It took all my willpower not to say, "Sir, you're drunk NOW! How drunk were you when you were making home repairs?!"
But shoddy craftsmanship wasn't even my main concern. The biggest problem was that he would still be living just steps from my front door, and might get the notion to drop in anytime in an altered state.
When he started profanity-laden price negotiations directly with me, I called it a day and walked off. He may have made some nice additions to the property, but the extra three sheets were not an effective selling point.