Well. Last night was quite a doozy of an episode, was it not? Complete with hair-pulling and heel-breaking and police lights flashing blue and lonely outside the high-class North Jersey Country Club. Let's sift through the wreckage.

If you'll remember from last week: Danielle, Jacqueline, Teresa, the two festerskeletons known as the Kims, and various other ghouls and goblins of Joisee had descended like whining black banshees on the gabled roofs of the Country Club for a fashion show fundraiser. There had been much barking and burping about whether Jacqueline & Teresa should be in the same room as Danielle, who has a persecution complex so bad she thinks that anyone who's ever looked at her wants to kill her. (To be fair, many some do.) Eventually everyone decided that despite the totes awkwardness of the whole situation, it was sweet, sweet camera time that none of them could, in good conscience, turn down. So there it was. Observe the daughters of Ulster marching toward the Somme. (Or whatever.) An ominous hum of dread filled the air.

Drinks were sloshed, faraway insults hurled, the fashion show happened, it was over. Everyone had made it out alive. Well, almost. They almost made it out. As Danielle made her way for the door with her bedraggled and lurching entourage, she heard a familiar nasally voice say "Danielle?" The bug queen whipped around and there were Teresa and Jacqueline sitting in giant armchairs, a huge fireplace crackling sinisterly behind them. "Just wanted to say hi..." Teresa droned. And that was all it took. Venom started shooting out of every pore in Danielle's exoskeleton. Teresa's eyes turned black and her skin glowed bright, bright orange. These two battlebugs were getting into fighting mode and there was nothing to do at this point. Jacqueline clutched her rosary beads. At a producer's request, one of the other women in attendance lowered a large wooden plank across the door. No one would be getting out or in. This had to end here.

So the girls screamed bitch at each other and Danielle tried to act frightened and attacked and, well, OK, maybe at this point I would feel a little frightened, mostly because Teresa has the mental capacity of a four year old and four year olds are often known to kick and bite and scratch. But really there was no reason for Danielle to be afraid, surrounded as she was by her millions of beautiful and competent bodyguards. Plus, if she felt so threatened, all she had to do was leave! Which is what she did. She ran tearing down the hallway, weeping and wailing, limping because of a broken heel (what cheap ass shoes are you wearing, lady?), yelling "Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" At this point all of the other women of the party — the Donnas, the Maries, the Tinas, the Tammies — had heard the distinctive cry of a New Jersey housewife scuffle, so they all ran out of the fashion show room with their cameras in hand to see the action. From Danielle's crazed perspective, this made it seem like "200 people" were attacking her. Danielle was going to be torn limb from limb by an angry pitchfork mob. Oh Danielle! Why is she accursed so!

Teresa meanwhile was stomping toward Danielle with grim determination, shoulder-slamming her way past all manner of people in her single-minded mission to say more shit to Danielle. When the two women got to the barred door, they both used their insane camera-induced adrenalin strength to slam right through it. Teresa got caught up in the crush of ladies trying to fill the newly created vacuum, while Danielle stood by a wall, a huddle of protectors surrounding her, and moaned and sobbed and shrieked. "I can't breathe! I can't breathe!" she said, in a Cable Ace Award-worthy performance. She couldn't breathe! She couldn't breathe! This was the worst thing that had ever happened to anyone, a fight at a country club. Someone who has been in a scary car accident and talks to the police afterward to tell them what has happened and can breathe? They have not been in a country club fight. People who go to war and are ambushed and yell orders to each other to keep as many of their guys (and gals) alive, and do so while being able to breathe? They have never known the horror and torment of being yelled at at a country club. Last night Danielle suffered truly the greatest psychological torture, abuse, and indignity that a white woman in the Northeastern United States in the year 2010 can suffer. Danielle was yelled at at a country club and now she couldn't breathe, was sobbing and moaning, was attended to by physicians, roused with smelling salts, slapped like a blue newborn. It was all they could do to save her. "We're losing her...!!" a doctor said sternly as Danielle's poor innocent deer eyes rolled back in her cranium and she began to involuntarily mutter last rites over herself. Things were looking final.

But then the moment passed and Danielle found her breath again. Her eyes fluttered back into place and everyone rejoiced and praised their god Zoroaster and Danielle said "Let's go! Let's go! I feel another attack coming on!" Though she meant a personal breath-attack, indeed an attack of a different nature was looming. As she turned with her posse to leave, a hand reached out of the crowd, a single plump orange paw, and grabbed Danielle's hair, twined its porky fingers into her extensions and, with a sickening rending sound, tore them from her head. "Yooiiinkkkkkk!!!" it went as Danielle's head flew back and the bulbous fingered fleshsack held its new bounty up in triumph. Only then could we see the owner of the hand, looking glassy eyed and insolent. It was Bouffant, Jacqueline's Danielle-warring daughter! Ohhhh no Bouffant! You have committed weaveicide, a grave crime in this and any other part of the world. To force a woman to reveal that she wears weave... it is just the direst of cruelties and debasements. Danielle, of course, let out a piercing shriek and ran faster for her car, once again blubbering and heaving, so overcome with rage and sadness and mania was she. Eventually she couldn't walk and had to be carried Bodyguard-style the rest of the way. It was so harrowing and yet... romantic? "They need to be arrested! I'm having all of them arrested!" she howled in Debbie Reynolds' car. "She took my real hair! Some of that was real hair!"

For their part, Teresa and Jacqueline tried to approach the black car to talk to Danielle, for very different reasons, but of course Danielle would not see them. She was very worried they were going to kill her. She was very, very concerned that they would murder her because that would make complete sense. You know what is worth spending the rest of your life in jail? Murdering Danielle Staub. You're really accomplishing something by getting rid of her, you know? Danielle Staub matters so much in this world that it is worth risking your immortal soul to rub her out. Yes, Danielle. Everyone is abusing and trying to murder you, because they're so very invested in everything that you're doing. What you're doing right now is yowling in the back of a car and saying you want to go home when you keep not, in fact, going home.

Well, that was partly not Danielle's fault. She was in Debbie Reynolds' car but Debbie Reynolds refused to leave. Oh no, she was loving this too much. With Danielle safely stowed away, she could play double agent. She could sidle up to the other girls and shake her head and try to Figure Things Out. She even talked to Teresa! What a traitor. Ohhh the two Kims (Debbie is one of the Kims in case you're not following) were soooo happy to be involved in this, weren't they? You could just tell. They all went back inside to hash things out and the two Kims stood there glowing, feeling part of the inner circle, all the other ladies that they used to be, Donnas Tinas Maries Tammies, hovering on the peripheral. The Kims were not them that night. No, they had risen ranks, were sitting at a table with Teresa and company. Ohh this was what making it feels like! And all that had to happen to get there was Danielle having her head removed by angry Bouffant. That's all!

Jacqueline found out what her daughter had done, and rightly screamed her out of the scene. Bouffant was trying insolently to get in on the action and approach Danielle's car, but Jacqs was all "Oh hellllll no, you go home! You are a child! Go home! Go home!" Of course Bouffant didn't go home right away. She stayed there in time for the police to get there. Yes, Danielle sobbed over several 911 calls and demanded that the entire police squad of North Jersey come and rescue her. "They tore my hair and made me run and break a heel, so yes, I think they should all be arrested, every last one of them." The funniest thing about when she was on the phone with the police was that she said "Hi, yes, this is Danielle Staub," as if the police would be like "Ms. Staub! Certainly, we'll send the commissioner himself! Oh goodness Ms. Staub, I know this is highly inappropriate, but may I just say... I am a huge fan." She really said it as if people were going to recognize her name. No, Danielle. You're just some crazy drunk lady calling 911 about a weave attack. That is all. Not a fabulous celebrity, persecuted by jealous and evil nobodies. Just a lady weeping in a car and calling four police cars because a teenager grabbed at your weave. I don't know. I'm not a geologist (professionally), but I think that might be rock bottom. "Yes, police? Weave." Sigh.

Anyway, the police came and everyone farted out their stories, including Bouffant, who said terrific things like "Well I grabbed her weave and not her real hair, so technically I didn't touch her." Which was such a masterful bit of legal semantics! Bouffant is so clever. The policeman, dazzled by her wit and beauty, let her go. She drove off in her big black tumor of a car and disappeared scot-free into the Jerseyian night. In fact, everyone did. Everyone piled into their cars and that was that, the noise died down. The Donnas and Tinas and Maries and Tammies looked around, shrugged their shoulders, decided they'd go home too, they guessed. That was that.

Oh but it wasn't over! Of course it wasn't over. There was, of course, fallout. First, everyone had to retell the story. Jacqueline and Teresa went over to Caroline's to relate their side of the tale, while Danielle went out to the tool shed, kicked a sleeping bag lying on the dirt floor and said "C'mon, get up, I gotta tell you something," and then a few minutes later a tired-looking Scraps walked into the kitchen and said "The fuck's goin' on?" It was like watching Rashomon, with competing narratives describing the same event but in different ways. In Teresa and Jacqueline's recounting, it was all crocodile tears and dramatics. In Danielle's version, she was walking out of the fashion event in her beautiful white gown, kissing babies and petting small rabbits, when all of a sudden Teresa and Bouffant jumped out of a closet and attacked her with knives, shrieking "Why can't we be as pretty as you, Danielle? Why can't we be as pretty as you??" In this version Danielle then said "Please, take my life, but spare my bodyguards in return." And the bodyguards were so touched by her sacrifice that they screwed up their courage and dragged the barely alive Danielle, sweet heroic Danielle, out to the car. It was a harrowing tale. And was, duh, completely accurate!! As evidence of the injustices and pains she'd suffered, Danielle showed us, the audience at home, the clump of hair that was stolen from her head. (How did she get it back? Didn't Bouffant have it?) And, uh... the clump she held up? Was A) clearly not real hair and B) not even the same color as the hair on Danielle's head. Like, not remotely. It was a light kind of chestnut brown. Danielle has never had hair that color. So I have no idea where she got this clump of weave, but I suspect there's another lady sitting in another car somewhere dialing other police because she too has been victim of a terrible, soul-shattering drive-by deweaving.

So both sides told their stories and then it was time to begin the moving on process. Danielle's first, crucial step was to call her energist. Hm, what's that? You've never heard of an energist? Wow! Next thing you're gonna tell me is that you've never heard of an essenceist or a dispositiontologist! These are very important medical-spiritual specialists who do necessary things with their clients. An energist is probably at the top of that ladder, the brain surgeon to an attitudinist's GP. Danielle really needed to seek her counsel and boy was the energist helpful. She said "Do you mind if I call Jacqueline and get all these energies sorted out?" Danielle wasn't sure about this but, OK, she gave her Jacqueline's number. Ohhhh you sneaky fucking energist! You just wanted to have more time on the show, didn't you!! Some energists are clever, some are kind, and some are sneaky. This is a sneaky energist. Beware! So Jacqueline was sitting in her car outside of Posche for some reason ("Here, spend a night in the beautiful new Posche Raccoon, it gets three sleep minutes per hour!") and her phone rang and, yep, it was the energist. "Hi," the lady cooed. "I'm sort of Danielle's personal trainer for her spirit," she said in all seriousness. Jacqueline's eyes rolled so hard there was the sound of a bowling alley in her skull. "OK, uh, what do you want?"

The energist wanted Jacqueline to lie still and quiet and cleanse all the energies that are bad for Jacqueline and Danielle because of energies that are bad, in the world there are energies, psychic and other energies, and you need to cleanse them Jacqueline, for Danielle. Why exactly was Jacqueline supposed to do energistic work for Danielle's betterment? It just didn't make any sense. Jacqueline wanted to know how long Danielle had been seeing this quack, but the woman upheld the deeply valued energist-client privilege and did not reveal anything about her client. She did, however, titter a little bit at the end when Jacqueline, who had just been playing games on her iPhone the whole time, said "Could you work a little harder on Danielle?" The energist did giggle at that. Because, yeah, Danielle's awful, everyone secretly thinks it. The energist, Kim G. Oh Danielle. You are let down by everyone always. Even the Weave Police won't arrest anyone. Even them. Even them.

That important work done, Jacqueline decided to head home and deal with Bouffant. Something needed to be done about this weave-pulling fiasco. So she put on her best blue leopard-print pajama sweatshirt and told Bouffant to put on her favorite pink zebra-print pajamas, and they had a very serious conference in the Sleeptime Safari room. Jacqueline wanted La Bouff to can it with all the Facebooking and antagonizing. Danielle is clearly an emotionally shattered woman who thinks everyone's out to get her, so maybe it would be best to not prove her right by being out to get her. Bouffant did not like this. Bouffant shook her alarmingly hat-free head and said "Whatevurh." This was her sadistically cliched teen response to everything. "Whatevurh." Jacqueline shook her head. In a far off room, the baby cried. She went to tend to it, leaving an opening for Papa Jacqui to enter and speak with his daughter. "You fucked up." "Whatevurh." "Are you gonna be able to pay for a lawyer and court fees?" "No. Whatevurh." "Why don't you quit the sassmouth before I throw you out of here." "Whatevurh." It was just most infuriating thing on the planet. She is the worst teenager I've seen on TV in a long, long time. I just hate how she's playing up for the cameras — she can't give in to her parents because then her fans will think she's weak and childish and not cool, she needs to be above it and over it and just like, ohmgod, so Hills about it. Except on The Hills, as bad as those clownmonsters are, they don't go around ripping fake hair out of 50-year-old ladies' heads. That's not something they do on that show. So Bouffant is shooting herself in the hoof most of the time. If you don't act like a complete trashbucket idiot half the time, you won't have to spend the other half saying "Whatevurh" when confronted with your trashbucket ways! It's not hard math. Well, maybe for Bouffant it is hard. Maybe for her. In the end Papa Jacqui said "There is to be no more anything about Danielle from you ever again. Otherwise, I'm kicking you out of the house." No posting "last night was unbeWEAVEable" on your Facebook anymore, Bouffant. Or else. Will she be able to restrain herself? Will she backslide? We'll have to... WATCH WHAT HAPPENS. [gunshot]

There was a scene of Teresa telling her husband Bulldawg the story, and he nodded and asked why Bouffz had pulled the hair and Teresa said that the girl thought her mom had been hit. "Don't you think Zeppolina would go after some lady if I got hit?" Bulldawg nodded again, a small, proud smile on his face. "Yes, yes I do." And he was so happy. Because it was true. Because that is what these people value. Toughness. Victory. Nothing else. Teresa and Bulldawg drank wine, wanting to jump all over each other. They played pool and Teresa accentuated her "Clevelage" to distract her husband. Ah Clevelage. Drew Carey's favorite town.

Other than the fight stuff, we had our beautiful griffin god Albie dealing with his shameful law school problems. Well, they're not that shameful, mostly because he's managed (or tried, at least) to flip the script and make it all the school's fault. He went to his lawyer and laid out his case, saying that his learning disability had been ignored and discounted, that he was the victim of so very much. Caroline was so proud of him! Albie was playing the victim just like — Whoa, wait? Just like... Danielle. Did they not see this parallel? Did they not find those two strings hanging in the dark and realize that they must be tied together? Albie has a bit of a persecution complex when it comes to law school! How about that. For all of his honeycomb good looks and that goopy caramel smear of a smile, Albie feels embarrassed, which then makes him act cornered and insulted. He went to speak with his lawyer about getting kicked out of school for bad grades. Oh, Albie. What are we to make of you after that? What are we to think when you later say "I'm no pussy." (You are allowed to say this on Bravo now?) Shouldn't one accept the fact that one couldn't hack it at Seton Hall and got asked to leave because of bad grades, rather than seeing a lawyer and blaming the learning disorder? If you blame it now, you're going to have to blame it for the rest of your life. Do you really want those water buckets on your shoulders? I think not, my dear crème brûlée prince (all eggy and hard on the outside). I think not. I worry for you. I see the sad daggers in Caroline's eyes, and I worry for you.

Look at Danielle! A life of blaming other things. An existence held together by gum and excuses. An entire story of attacks and slights. No one wants that. How lonely and weird, how bald. Attacked at a country club. Betrayed by your energist. Let down by the Weave Police. I think it might be time to pack bags and move on, dear Beverly. I think your time in Franklin Lakes has met its end. What more is there to do? You have sat weeping in the back of another person's (a Judas too!) chauffeured automobile and you have called 911 because of weave. That means it's time. See the signs in the energist's Snapple tea leaves, dear Danielle. Feel the wind change as you drive in your Posche Meerkat convertible. The elements are trying to tell you something. They are. Maybe it is your duty to do one last thing, Danielle, and then you should leave.

Should you walk into a bar and see a weeping lion angel sitting hunched over an appletini, should it be Albie, should you go over to him and find yourself saying, despite yourself, cigarette smoke curling through your acrylic hair, "What's the matter?" And should he say "My learning disability and the mean old school say I can't be a lawyer." Should all that happen, you must put your hand on his and stroke it with that long talon thumb of yours, and say "Baby, it's too long a life to sit in the backseat asking 'Where am I going?', to keep blaming the bus for missing your stop. Hey, I should know, huh?" You say that to him, Danielle, for it would be the right thing to say. And you take him and treat him good when you lead him out behind the bar and you make tender, blameless love to each other up against the wall and he sobs the whole time. You pat his head when you are done, you say "See you when... Well, I'll just see you." And you get in your car and you leave him behind, imbued with a strange new confidence, and you drive your convertible faster and faster, the skyline of the great big city fading to pebble size behind you, the moonlight new and bright, your hair feeling full and free, remarkably weightless, gloriously untugged.

Photo and video credit goes to Ms. Brian Moylan, of the Housewives Institute.