Divorce court can test a judge, especially when the accusations -- built in the slimy law-crafter's atelier by a cruel two-hundred-an-hour myrmidon of some vitriol-twisted ex-to-be -- stray toward insanity and drunkenness; a brutal gauntlet, beginning with exaggeration and running to prevarication and (all-too-frequently) altercation, to test the mettle of a green adjudicate.
He stood there, the camera unobtrusively tucked under his arm in the rain; and in my malleable mental state he convinced me that it wasn't recording, while I yammered on and on like an onomatomaniac about the lambent bolts dancing across the thunderheads so -- no pun intended -- shockingly.
As I understand it, ma'am, these accusations of dipsomania began on a stormy beach vacation -- a cruel baptism of fire for a new bride with astraphobia -- the end result being this video your husband has; showing you, intoxicated, emerging from the sea-foam like Aphrodite, covered in clinquant dulse, reflecting the sky-fire like Christmas tinsel on a delirious, drunken conifer.
Don't worry, m'am; I know an altruistic organization that will collude with the office of the public defender to challenge the veracity of these accusations of dipsomania.
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