“Make America GOTTI’S Again.”

(Illustration by Pulitzer Prize winning cartoonist Nick Anderson, of the Reform Austin News.)

I’ll be looking at Donald Trump during Thursday night’s debate, in all of his smug flatulence producing crapulence, but thinking of John Gotti. 

No, not because Gotti was as physically grotesque as Trump, nor as gargantuan in his ignorance and stupidity. 

No, because I can see Gotti (a former associate of my brother’s) and a gathering of the Gambino gang seated around a small television at the Ravenite Social Club as they ridicule the repulsive and ridiculous Republican candidate for President of the United States—just as they mercilessly mocked him as a mushy mobster wannabe in New York for years.

“Look at that hair, “ I could hear Gotti say.  “He looks like he stuck his fucking tiny little fingers into some putana’s mattress, grabbed a handful of whatever wiry shit was in there and pasted it on his head.”

 Everyone else around the Boss burst out laughing.

“Check out his shoes, “ offered Angelo Ruggiero, a childhood friend of Gotti’s,  pointing at the TV.  “Does he have any toilet paper stuck to them bottoms again this time?  You’d think a guy with as much fucking money as he says he has wouldda learned to wipe his own fat ass the right way, by this time.”

Ruggiero did an imitation of Trump tipping over while he tried to twist his torso to see his own backside.  The others roared. 

John Cody, former head of the NYC/LI Teamsters’ and a prodigious Gambino Family earner who gave Trump fits on multiple construction sites, shook his head, once he stopped shaking from laughter. 

“Money?” That loser don’t have no money,” Cody said.  “That’s all bullshit.  Everytime we shook him down for more, or threatened to hold up one of his construction projects if he didn’t pay up, he squealed like the overstuffed pig he is.”

Cody continued:  “Trump talked tough.  But as soon as you confronted him, he cowered like a frightened little girl.  All talk, no action.  When I got my cumada Vernia Hixon a penthouse in Trump Tower—right below the bullshit artist’s own place—he was like a little lap dog, covering himself with drool.”

“Whadya need, John, Whadya want.  Anything!  Anything! The puffed up patsy  pleaded with me and Vernia ,” Cody said.  “He was a pathetic wimp; literally begging us to grab him by his pussy and wring him dry. Anything, John.  You name it.”

They all sneered, while Cody made the motion of being jerked-off.

“Imagine this fucking wimp comparing himself to Al Capone,” Gotti said.  “Did you hear him bragging before a bunch of his red-hatted guffoons last week, that he was indicted more times than Capone?

 “What a bunch of jadrools those dumbfucks are,” Gotti continued.   “As if that whiney wannabe was tougher than Capone because he got 34 Criminal indictments, and Capone only got 22.  What does that make me?  The fuckin’ feds only got me on 13 counts of murder and racketeering.  Does that fat fuck-face think that makes him almost three times as tough as me?  What a stinking pile of shit.  I didn’t see him taking out McBratney or Paul Castellano….”

Gotti motioned to the TV as Trump was blabbering on about the FBI, and the DOJ.

“That fuckin’ gasbag wouldn’t even last 60 seconds in Otisville, the goddamned Taj Mahal of Federal Prisons, “Gotti said.  “If someone farted near him, he’d asphyxiate himself on it to grovel for favor.”  

Cody picked up on Gotti’s cue and staggered to his feet, imitating Trump gasping for air:  “Ugh, ugh, anything for you, John; anything, you name it.  Suck the stink out of your fart?  You got it.”

Gotti and his entire crew doubled over with laughter.  Trash-talking Trump did that to them.

“I gotta give it to him– although it was probably the Russian Mob which deserves the credit for it,” Gotti said.  “They figured out that the best way to get a lot of their guys out of jail was to prop up the fucking pansy in the White House, so he could roll over and give ‘em everything they wanted, and pardon his friends who committed felonies for him.”

“Jeez, why didn’t we think of that?” Gotti asked, waving his hand at the TV.  “I coulda been the First Felon President, and walked in 1992, instead of getting a life sentence from the fucking feds 32 years ago this week.”

“Just think, “ Gotti said, standing up, and motioning his arms in a big sweeping gesture.  “MAGA woulda meant:  “Make America GOTTI’S Again!”

They all stood, clinked their glasses of wine and said “Salut,” in unison, as Trump drifted off into a rhapsodic riff about another multiple felony-committing  role-model of his,  Hannibal Lecter.


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