I try to be nice, I really do. I try not to be judgmental. But I often fail. When it comes to my sister-in-law, I fail on a regular basis.

Just to be clear, if this manipulative, punitive, demanding, controlling she-troll actually loved my brother, I could shrug my shoulders and say to myself, "Well, she's not MY cup of tea, but at least she loves my brother." Alas, I can't say that to myself because it's not true. I base this conclusion on events that took place a couple of years ago.

My brother (who is secretive as hell) apparently developed a couple of medical conditions, namely high blood pressure and a malfunctioning thyroid, that when taken together caused him to pass out. Actually, he was passing out for longer and longer periods of time. In fact, he was gradually falling into a coma. We didn't find out about this until he went missing for a day and a half. Cuntzilla called my parents' house at 10 p.m. asking if my brother was there. When my parents found out that my brother was missing for as much as a day, and that he had PASSED OUT BEFORE in his car for hours, they were understandably upset.

They asked questions such as, “Did you call the police?” “Have you checked his cell phone records?” and “Have you checked his ATM/credit cards?” The answers were all negative.

My parents called my sisters and me. My sisters sprung into action; since I had a 1 month old and a 2 year old at home, I wasn’t very springy. And Uberhubby was working late. My oldest sister called Cuntzilla again and told her to make sure to give the cops the VIN number of my brother’s car when she reported my brother missing.

Cuntzilla said she wasn’t going to call the cops and she didn’t know the VIN number even if she did. As oldest sister was telling her, “It’s on your car insurance…” Cuntzilla hung up. Oldest sister called police and told them the story.

Meanwhile, Uberhubby came home after working late and found one distraught Ubermilf. I told him the whole story, including her refusal to call the police, and suggested that maybe she was in denial or too upset to think clearly. Uberhubby drove over to my brother’s house. (We lived closest to them, anyway.)

When he got there, the cops had arrived. They were talking to one pissed off Cuntzilla.

When she saw my husband, she snarled, “Why are you here? Checking to make sure I didn’t bury him on the ninth hole?” (They lived next to a golf course.)

“No,” replied hubby, gently, to calm her down. “I’m here to help.” He offered to take her driving in an attempt to find my brother. She refused, with Cuntzilla iciness. He offered to stay, but was forced to leave before suffering from hypothermia. From that night forward, Cuntzilla has harbored bitter hatred for Uberhubby in her heart. You’d have to ask her for the exact reason; I suspect it’s because hubby was the only person besides the cop to actually see her that night, and was thus in a position to dispel the distressed wife tale she tried to weave.

Since this story is running long, I shall finish it another time. Suffice it to say, Cuntzilla gets worse. And worse.