Elizabeth Place v. Nathan & Diana Funk

Let’s cut straight to the drama: a tenant has decided that “lease agreement” is more of a suggestion than a contract, and now the landlord is suing to get their apartment—and their sanity—back. This isn’t just about unpaid rent. This is about someone digging their heels in, refusing to pay, refusing to leave, and turning a one-bedroom rental into a full-blown property showdown. Welcome to Canadian County, Oklahoma, where the stakes are $2,089, the tension is sky-high, and the only thing missing is popcorn.

Elizabeth Place, the plaintiff, is a landlord with what we can only assume is a growing list of reasons to hate the phrase “I’ll pay you next week.” She owns a property at 1955 S. Shepard Avenue in El Reno—specifically, Unit #114—and rented it out to Nathan and Diana Funk, a duo who, for a time, were presumably just regular tenants with regular rent habits. The details of how long they’d lived there or what their original lease terms were aren’t spelled out in the filing, but here’s what we do know: at some point, the Funks stopped paying rent. And not just for a month. Long enough, and enough money, that Elizabeth Place decided she’d had it. She’s not just mad—she’s legally mobilized.

Now, the Funks aren’t accused of trashing the place, throwing wild parties, or keeping a pet raccoon in the bathroom (at least, not according to this document). The core of the issue? They owe money and won’t leave. According to the affidavit filed on January 7, 2026, Elizabeth Place claims the Funks are indebted to her in the amount of $2,089—presumably for back rent, though the filing awkwardly leaves a blank space where “damages” would be itemized. Was there property damage? Maybe. But if there was, she’s either forgotten to specify it or is banking on the court to focus on the bigger problem: possession. Because here’s the kicker—she’s not just suing for cash. She wants them out. The Funks are, in legal terms, “wrongfully in possession” of her property, which is a fancy way of saying: you’re not welcome anymore, and your keys need to be returned yesterday.

This case is filed under “Forcible Entry and Detainer,” which sounds like something out of a medieval land dispute, but in modern Oklahoma, it’s the go-to legal mechanism for evictions. It’s fast, it’s designed for landlords who need to regain control of their property, and it doesn’t require a jury trial—just a judge deciding who has the right to be where. Elizabeth Place says she made a formal demand for the Funks to vacate. They said no. Or, more accurately, they did nothing, which in court-speak counts as a solid “nah.” So now, she’s asking the District Court of Canadian County to step in and say: “You, Nathan and Diana Funk, must leave. Now. And also, you owe money.”

Let’s talk about that number: $2,089. Is that a lot? For a small claims case in Oklahoma, yes and no. Small claims courts typically handle disputes under $10,000, so this fits comfortably within that range. But $2,089 is no joke if you’re a landlord relying on rental income to cover your mortgage, insurance, or that new roof you had to put on because someone (not naming names, but cough Funks cough) might’ve ignored a leak for six months. It’s roughly two months’ rent for a modest apartment in El Reno, give or take. It’s also the kind of sum that can feel like chump change to some, but when it’s your chump change, and someone’s living in your unit while refusing to pay? That’s when it stops being about the money and starts being about the principle. Or, let’s be honest—the pride.

Elizabeth Place isn’t just asking for a check. She’s seeking injunctive relief, which means she wants the court to issue an order forcing the Funks to vacate. No negotiation. No “I’ll move by May.” Just a legally binding “you are no longer allowed to be here.” She didn’t ask for punitive damages—so she’s not trying to punish them beyond what they owe. She didn’t demand a jury. She didn’t go full scorched-earth. She’s keeping it simple: pay up or get out. Preferably both.

Now, here’s where things get deliciously awkward. The Funks haven’t filed a response—yet. At least, not in this document. We don’t know their side. Maybe they think the rent was paid. Maybe they believe the apartment has serious maintenance issues that justify withholding payment. Maybe they’re disputing the amount. Or maybe—just maybe—they’re the kind of people who believe that if they ignore the problem long enough, it’ll go away. (Spoiler: it does not. The law has a funny way of showing up with a deputy.)

What makes this case peak petty civil drama is how normal it starts and how personal it becomes. This isn’t a corporate landlord evicting a struggling family. This isn’t a slumlord being taken to court by tenants for unsafe conditions. This is one individual—Elizabeth Place—facing off against another pair—Nathan and Diana Funk—over a single apartment, a few thousand dollars, and the right to decide who gets to sleep in bed #114 tonight. It’s intimate. It’s tense. And it’s probably been accompanied by some very passive-aggressive text messages.

Our take? The most absurd part isn’t the money. It’s the sheer refusal to engage. If you’re not paying rent, the least you can do is either fix it or leave. Ghosting your landlord like they’re an ex who texted “we need to talk” is not a viable life strategy. And while we don’t know the full story—hey, we’re entertainers, not lawyers—it’s hard not to root for Elizabeth Place, if only because she showed up with paperwork and a notarized affidavit, while the Funks seem to be operating on the bold strategy of “maybe she’ll forget.” Newsflash: she did not forget. She filed in January. It’s now—hypothetically—months later. That’s not just delinquency. That’s commitment.

So what happens next? If the Funks don’t respond, Elizabeth could win by default. The court could issue an order for them to vacate, and if they still don’t leave? Hello, sheriff. Boot. Out. And possibly a black mark on their rental history that follows them like a bad Yelp review. If they do show up, we could get drama: receipts, counterclaims, emotional testimony about broken dishwashers or noisy neighbors. Honestly? We’re here for it.

Because at the end of the day, this isn’t just about $2,089. It’s about who gets to call a place home—and who gets handed a court order telling them to pack their stuff. And in Canadian County, that’s apparently enough to go to war over.