6th April, 2025
- Black Lawyer
- Apr 6
- 2 min read
Entry No. 180: “The Marital Throne Wars”
Filed under: Upholstered Pettiness & Unflushable Grievances
Dearest Diary,
In my line of work, one becomes desensitized to the grand absurdities of divorce: yachts, Rolexes, mistresses with NDAs. But every so often, a case comes along so devoid of opulence, so dripping in domestic delusion, that it lingers like cheap cologne in a shared Uber.
Allow me to present: The Case of the Two Toilet Seat Covers.(Yes. That is, in fact, the central dispute. No, I am not being metaphorical.)
The players?
A pair of formerly married, presently unemployed adults locked in battle over their only remaining asset: the marital home.
A modest bungalow of average charm and above-average emotional baggage. I represented the wife—a sensible woman with tragic taste in men but an excellent sense of humour.
Opposing her was her husband: a generously circumferenced fellow with the temperament of a malfunctioning Keurig and the fashion sense of a sitcom dad.
The issue?
The house was being listed for sale.
And the husband—let’s call him Sir Seats-A-Lot—refused to replace two visibly stained toilet seat covers. Not remove. Not clean. Not bleach. Replace.
As in, spend twelve American dollars and regain some semblance of sanitation.
He insisted they were “fine.”
He called them “broken in.”
He referred to them—I swear on my silk blouse—as “textured with history.”
The mediator gagged. I reached into the Victorian era to grab them and clutched my pearls.
Even the realtor submitted a declaration describing them as "deeply distracting."
Still, he held firm. “Buyers should appreciate authenticity,” he declared. “It’s part of our story.”
Diary, their story was written in mildew.
Our resolution? A compromise so ridiculous, so resplendent in its idiocy, it belongs in a climate-controlled glass case between the Crown Jewels and a roast chicken.
She would agree to the listing price.
He would agree to replace the seat covers.
And I would agree to never attend another mediation without disinfectant wipes and a flask.
He cried.
She rolled her eyes.
I booked a facial.
And just as we began to sign the final listing agreement, he muttered, “I’m keeping the loofah.”
Some couples divide Bentleys. Others divide blended families. These two? They divided toilet décor.
And in doing so, proved that love may fade—but pettiness? Pettiness is forever.
I remain, as ever—Poised. Petty. Permanently Lysol’d.
Disclaimer:This diary entry is a fictionalized satire. Any resemblance to real people, property, or porcelain disputes is coincidental—but uncomfortably plausible.
Tag someone who’s emotionally attached to their bathmat.
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