That Was the Day that Was

What a day. What a gruesome day. What a horrible, no-good, awful day.

I can't go into particulars, because a lawsuit making Jarndyce versus Jarndyce look like American Idol is very likely to come out of today's events, but I can at least give you the gist.

Imagine, if you dare, the ghastly mental state brought on by the indiscriminate mixture of the following ingredients:

• A father-in-law in the advancing stages of Alzheimer's who in the vigor of late middle age but the vulnerability of new widowerhood some years ago didn't have the sense to fend off the advances of a hideous, gold-digging trull whose face is the result of a baleful mating ritual between Margaret Dumont and a turkey buzzard.


• Said hideous, gold-digging trull.


• A pair of disgusting, pusillanimous nursing-home administrators, the thing they'd send up from Central Casting if you'd called down for Starched-Shirt Scumbag Weasel Bureaucrats.


• A brother-in-law who, I'm afraid to say, gets his dander up when thwarted by Parties of the Second and Third Parts above in defense of the interests of the Party of the First Part, and who expresses his displeasure quite vocally.
  
  
• The Party of the First Part's daughters, Wonder Woman included, who merely wanted to make their father's losing his mind a slightly less horrifying experience by decorating his Spartan managed-care facility room with some trinkets and memorabilia, with which h. g.-d. t. is confoundingly unwilling to part. H. g-d t. enlists disgusting, pusillanimous n.-h. a.'s to prevent our gaining access to Father-in-Law's property, which we have gold-plated Power of Attorney to do. Screaming match ensues, and lawsuits are embarked upon.
  
  
• Oh, yeah, almost forgot: A nearly pathologically conflict-averse Neddie Jingo. I get the shaking sweats when I read angry patty-cake pee-pee contests at Fark.

I've managed to dull the worst of the dull throbbing behind my temples by means of a restorative vodka and soda or three, and I'm beginning to feel some small part of my equanimity returning, but it was touch and go there earlier this evening. On the way home, sad beyond measure, I stopped at the St. James church graveyard in Lovettsville, and got some utter heartbreakers of photographs, which I will post as soon as I am somewhere I can upload without contracting a case of the Shrieking Marthambles.