11 April, 2025
- Black Lawyer
- Apr 11
- 2 min read
Entry No. 184: “The Booty, The Baby & the Bench”
Filed under: Contempt, Custody & Collagen Collapse
Dearest Diary,
Some trials test the law. Others test the Lord’s patience....and mine.
I’ve just concluded a three-day custody circus in which I represented a married man fighting to keep custody of his daughter—born of an extramarital affair. Already, the math is scandalous but dear reader, this story was far too juicy to keep to myself.
For the past three years, this child had lived in peace with my client and his wife, potty training and watching Paw Patrol with her father—while her mother, shall we say, explored the penal system like a lifestyle brand.
Three separate incarcerations, each for theft. One for swiping wigs. One for stealing from her job. And the third? Allegedly lifted a Bluetooth speaker from a church picnic. Her spiritual warfare is… unconventional - but who are you to judge, reader? Especially when you have me to do it for you?
But redemption, Diary, is often delusional.
Upon her release, rather than re-enter society with grace and maybe a job that did not involve running from loss prevention, she went to her daughter’s salon appointment, snatched the child mid-blowout, and disappeared like an unsecured wig in the wind.
We filed emergency orders. We got our hearing. We got our victory. Because, as I reminded the court, one cannot claim to be the most fit parent who deserved primary custody when one’s last known address was Cell Block C, Bunk 6.
Now, any normal human being—having just lost custody on the record—might leave quietly, reflect, perhaps even whisper a prayer.
Not this one.
No, darling.
She and her three friends decided to twerk on the courthouse steps like they were headlining a Ying Yang Twins comeback tour.
TikTok was summoned.
Lace fronts were adjusted.
I, instead of hailing my Uber, decided to park my attention on the free circus.
And cheeks—surgically enhanced and recently BBL’d—clapped in defiance of the judge’s ruling.
And then… gravity.
She attempted a squat-drop finale. Her heel buckled. Her balance betrayed her. My ability to keep a straight face betrayed me, reader.
She fell—hard—on the left cheek.
There was a pop, a gasp, and then a limp so pronounced you’d think she’d auditioned for Batman's the Penguin.
The security guard at the front dropped his cigarette - can you blame him? A bystander's child screamed, “Her butt exploded!”
And somewhere, I imagine, the ghost of Ruth Bader Ginsburg wept softly into her collar.
I wondered, "will she be okay?" and "did that hurt?"
Physically? Possibly. Spiritually? Unclear. Legally? Absolutely not.
Because some people lose a case with dignity. Others lose an implant on government property.
And when it comes to custody and collagen, the bench will always rule on what’s real.
I remain, as ever—Briefed. Bothered. Blessed by the Bailiff’s Restraint.
Disclaimer: This entry is a fictionalized satire. Any resemblance to actual people, events, or lawsuits is entirely coincidental—but not impossible.
Tag someone who’s one court date away from twerking on the steps.
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