Dear James Comey

Dear Mr. Big Shot Know-It-All Comey,

Okay, you're Irish.  I'll cut you some slack on account of that, because - obviously - what do you know?  But, take it from me, Connie Staccato, whose father-in-law signed Paulie the Waiter's citizenship papers, there is nothing about Donald Trump that remotely resembles a mob boss.

That big orange cafone a mob boss??  A capo di tutti capi?  Don't make me laugh.  He wouldn't last five minutes.  He wouldn't last five minutes in Mr. Roger's Neighborhood.  

And I don't know who you were dealing with when you were out busting The Outfit, but it must have been the waterboys because even the numbnuts underbosses know:

1. you don't go around flappin' your jaw.
2. you don't put ketchup on a steak.
3. you should have a decent tailor, for crissakes!

I'm sorry, but you caught me in a bad mood.  I had an appointment with a urogynecologist today, and then I come home to this nonsense.  If you don't know what a urogynecologist is, count yourself lucky.

Anyways, now you owe me some quality entertainment.  

Ciao,

Connie Staccato

Consultant, All Things Sicilian-American