Philip FRANK Sandoval v. Terry Albert Goedderz

Let’s get straight to the drama: a man is being sued for $1,115—yes, that oddly specific amount—because he allegedly stopped paying rent, trashed the place, and just… stayed. Like a houseguest who wore out his welcome, then decided the lease was more of a suggestion. This isn’t a case about millions or murder. No, this is the civil court equivalent of a passive-aggressive sticky note on the fridge that escalated into a full-blown legal showdown. Welcome to the District Court of Canadian County, Oklahoma, where $1,115 is worth a day in court and the stakes are as low as the rent apparently was.

Meet Philip Frank Sandoval, the plaintiff, landlord, and self-appointed enforcer of basic tenant etiquette. He owns a property at 2617 Renwick Avenue in Oklahoma City—modest, unassuming, probably the kind of house that looks exactly like every other house on the block unless you’re looking for it. And then there’s Terry Albert Goedderz, the defendant, who, according to court documents, was living at that very address and, at some point, decided that paying rent was optional. The relationship between these two men appears to be strictly business—landlord and tenant, no indication of friendship, no shared history of backyard barbecues or Netflix password swaps. Just a roof, a lease (we assume), and a growing stack of unpaid bills.

So what happened? Well, according to Sandoval’s sworn affidavit—because yes, this is serious enough to require swearing on a Bible or whatever they do in Canadian County—Terry Goedderz stopped paying rent. Not a little late. Not “I’ll get to it next week.” Nope. He just… didn’t. The amount? A crisp $115. Let that sink in. One hundred and fifteen dollars. That’s less than the cost of a decent smartphone case with extra protection and a built-in wallet. It’s two months of Spotify Premium. It’s one concert ticket if you don’t mind standing in the nosebleeds. And yet, this is where the dam broke. Sandoval says he asked for the money. Goedderz said no. And then, allegedly, things got worse.

Because it’s not just the unpaid rent. Oh no. There’s an extra thousand bucks on the table—$1,000—for damages to the premises. Now, the filing doesn’t go into what kind of damage. Was there a hole in the wall from a misplaced karate kick? Did Terry turn the living room into a personal racetrack for remote-controlled monster trucks? Did he paint the walls black and call it “industrial chic” without permission? We don’t know. The affidavit is as sparse as a studio apartment in winter. But $1,000 in damages on a presumably modest rental suggests we’re not talking about a missing coaster. This is more like “you left the stove on and the couch caught fire” or “I found a pet raccoon in the bathtub and you said it was your emotional support bandit.” Whatever happened, Sandoval wants to be made whole. Or at least, $1,115 whole.

So why are they in court? Legally speaking, this is a forcible entry and detainer action—which, despite sounding like a medieval siege, is just Oklahoma’s fancy way of saying “eviction.” It’s the legal tool landlords use when a tenant won’t pay or won’t leave. Sandoval isn’t asking for jail time. He’s not demanding a public apology. He wants two things: his money and his property back. The $115 in unpaid rent is straightforward. The $1,000 is for repairs, cleaning, lost income, or whatever else the damage might’ve cost. And if Goedderz won’t vacate? Then the court can order him removed. This is small claims court, so the process is supposed to be fast, simple, and relatively drama-free. Except, of course, when the drama is the whole point.

Now, let’s talk about the number: $1,115. Is that a lot? In the grand scheme of lawsuits, it’s practically pocket lint. You could buy a slightly used sedan for that. Or a really good vacuum cleaner and a year of therapy. But in the context of rent? It depends. If this was a $2,000-a-month luxury loft, $115 is a rounding error. But if this is a $700-a-month rental in Oklahoma City, $115 is over two weeks’ worth of rent. That’s not nothing. And $1,000 in damages? For a modest home, that could mean new carpet, repainting, drywall repair, or replacing appliances. It’s not “burn the house down” money, but it’s enough to make a landlord’s eye twitch. Sandoval could’ve written this off, sure. He could’ve said, “Eh, lesson learned,” and moved on. But no. He filed a sworn affidavit. He showed up (metaphorically) with paperwork and a side of indignation. This is about principle. Or pride. Or maybe he just really hates chasing people for money.

And now, our take: what’s the most absurd part of this whole mess? Is it the oddly precise $1,115? The fact that someone is getting hauled into court over what amounts to less than a monthly phone bill? The silence on what exactly the damages were? (We’re picturing Terry hosting a DIY demolition derby in the living room.) Or is it the sheer Oklahoma small-town courtroom energy—two men, one address, one dispute, and a deputy court clerk named Holly Eaton signing off on it all like she’s seen this exact scenario play out a hundred times before?

Here’s the thing: we’ve all had a roommate who didn’t pay their share. We’ve all known someone who left a mess. But most of us don’t escalate to a forcible entry and detainer action. We vent on group chats. We post cryptic Instagram stories. We dramatically change the locks and keep the security deposit. But Philip Frank Sandoval? He went full legal. And Terry Albert Goedderz? He apparently didn’t budge—financially or physically. So now, in a small courtroom in Canadian County, a judge will decide whether $115 and a thousand bucks in alleged damages are enough to evict a man and slap him with a legal judgment.

Do we think Terry’s a deadbeat? Maybe. Do we think Philip’s being a little extra? Also maybe. But what we do know is this: someone thought $1,115 was worth a court date, a sworn affidavit, and the full weight of Oklahoma’s eviction laws. And honestly? We’re here for it. Because if nothing else, this case is a beautiful reminder that in America, no dispute is too small, no rent too modest, and no grudge too petty for the sweet, sweet embrace of the civil justice system.

We’re entertainers, not lawyers. But if this goes to trial, we’re bringing popcorn.