9th April, 2025
- Black Lawyer
- Apr 9
- 2 min read
Diary of a Black Lawyer
Entry No. 183: “The Marital Throne That Reeked”
Filed under: Foot Fragrance, Cougar Matriarchs & the Death of Dignity
Dearest Diary,
Some divorces unravel empires. Others… unravel recliners.
I was summoned—not so much for legal brilliance, but to preside over the slow, odorous demise of a marriage marinated in mothballs, mildewed memories, and matrimonial despair.
My client, Miss Eloise, was a stately 84. She’d spent six decades enduring marriage to a man who, according to her sworn testimony, “smelled like a bag of Fritos left in a sauna.”
She did not come to play. She came with documents, detachment, and a scented handkerchief.
And the breaking point?
Not the infidelity (there was none).Not the finances (neither knew the Wi-Fi password).
No, it was his mother. A sprightly 103-year-old harpy named Agnes, who’d taken a new lover—a spry 70-year-old handyman named Chip with calf muscles and cholesterol problems.
“She’s out here living her best life, Raya,” my client sighed, “Meanwhile I’m sleeping next to a man whose feet smell like Satan’s snack aisle.”
Miss Eloise had moved out—emotionally, spiritually, and finally, physically. But Mr. Harold—bless him—refused to sign the divorce decree.
His reason?
He wanted to be “buried in the recliner she bought him for their 40th anniversary.”
The recliner in question?
A crushed velvet monstrosity named “Sir Crumblesworth the Third,” stuffed with faded upholstery, potato chip crumbs, and the ghosts of arguments past.
It was parked dead center in their mediation Zoom background, like a throne of passive-aggressive royalty.
During our negotiation, the husband said ,
“If she takes my recliner, I’ll haunt her in orthopedic shoes.”
She replied, lacking hesitation,
“Good. You’ve haunted me with your feet long enough.”
The mediator stifled a laugh so forcefully I feared for her spleen.
When asked by the mediator what outcome she truly desired, my client blinked slowly, then said,
“Freedom. And central air.”
Agnes, the 103-year-old matriarch, submitted an affidavit that she hand wrote in cursive (I wish I were joking) stating that her son “had never understood what a woman needs.” She also described Chip as “vital, limber, and attentive,” and enclosed a grainy photo of him shirtless, holding a leaf blower.
Reader, I regret to inform you—I opened it.
Eventually, Mr. Harold relented—not out of remorse, but because his gout flared up during the last Zoom hearing and he missed his pharmacist’s call.
They signed. They parted. She smiled.
And I—well, I disinfected my spirit.
Some love stories end in flame. Others in Febreze and fury. Either way, if your mother-in-law is out here getting more action than you, it may be time to review your prenup and your podiatry.
I remain, as ever—Poised. Petty. Permanently Unscented.
Disclaimer:This entry is a fictionalized satire. Any resemblance to actual people, events, or recliners named after imaginary dukes is entirely coincidental—but spiritually accurate.
Tag someone who knows corn chips aren’t a love language.
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