Dear Michael Avenatti

Dear Mr. Avenatti,

What does an Italian girl say when a guy proposes to her?

She says, "Yeah, okay."

You know why.  It's on account of she knows what she's getting into.  That's because Italian families spend all their waking hours in one room together, usually the kitchen.  So the girl has seen what marriage is really like, from her mother and father, her sisters and brothers, her uncles and aunts, her cousins.

And everybody else who's hanging around the house because:

1. their families are non-Italians, and are therefore incredibly boring, and/or are the types that send their kids to "Bible Camp";
2. they got no place else to go;
3. the food's good.

So there's little romance in getting married and few surprises.  You want happy tears of excitement from an Italian girl?  Ask her if she wants to go to Vegas for the weekend.

This explains why there's so much drama amongst the medigans.  They hide stuff.  Or they think they're hiding stuff, which makes them act like stiffs, but it all comes out in the end and then they are SO shocked and outraged that you know what they've been up to.  Like, how dare you.  And that's why they have midlife crises.  And nervous breakdowns.  Their past catches up with them.  What a surprise.

(Sound familiar?  Brett Kavanaugh maybe?  I swear to God, in the Italian dictionary, next to faccia di cazzo is that guy's picture.)

Not the Italians, though.  Past, present, future, it's all in the kitchen.  The really bad things are talked about in Italian, a great motivation for the kids to learn the language.  But the kids also learn that they would have to move to Siberia if they want to hide something.  They don't even try.  My grandmother could tell if you were knocked up just by the look on your face.  Better to fight it out in the kitchen, even if you get hit with a shoe. 

So in my house there was no hiding anything.  Unless you count the stash of guns in the attic, hidden in the secret closet behind the big dresser.  I can tell people about that now, since the house is long gone and the individuals involved have passed away.  Anyway, I'm not worried about being investigated by the FBI.

Nobody's asked me to be on the Supreme Court.

Buona fortuna,

Connie Staccato

Actually Sicilian, but married to a Napolitan

Dear Michael Avenatti

Dear Mr. Avenatti,

St. Anthony heard my prayers and now you're running for President!  

I don't even care if you win or lose.  I just want to watch you on TV.  And don't go getting all reasonable and middle-of-the-road on me.  We have enough of those jadrools already.  Just give me some full-on, St. Louis Italian, and let the games begin.

I've been thinking about offering you my daughter Nicola's hand in marriage, you being without a wife at the moment.  But I'm going to wait and see how this plays out.  I really can't picture her as First Lady, unless you're okay with her sleeping in all morning and wearing flats.  But she's beautiful (like a Botticelli!), and makes sauce.  So things don't work out, keep it in mind.

In bocca al lupo.

Your fan,

Connie Staccato

Dear Michael Avenatti

Dear Michael Avenatti,

"...every time I watch him work, I think, 'This is what it must have been like to see the Sistine Chapel being painted.'" 

- Stormy Daniels

I couldn't have said it better myself.

And I love how she brings the Holy Father into play here.  Seriously, you guys are keeping me off the Galliano.

In bocca al lupo,

Connie Staccato
President
Italian-Americans Against that Boombots in the White House

Dear Mr. Trump

Dear Mr. Trump,

Per your tweet of this morning:

"Just reported that, despite the tremendous success we are having with the economy and all things else, 91% of the Network News about me is negative (Fake)."

Fancy that.

Though most people would probably dismiss the above statement as being impulsive drivel, it gave me pause for reflection, and I would like to make the following observations:

1. You watched Fox and Friends this morning.
2. Only 91%?
3. This is a frightening attempt at an Orwellian mind-fuck. 
4. The words "negative" and "fake" are not synonyms.  If you do not know this, then you need a dictionary and/or another sit-down with Ronny Jackson and the Montreal Cognitive Assessment.
5. The words "network news" and "fake" do not require capitalization in this context.  (Just saying.)

In the aforementioned tweet, you floated the idea of taking away press credentials from members of the press that you don't like.  You appear to mean this as a threat, relegating them to some sort of Press Purgatory where they will languish, enduring the pain of longing for the Beatific Vision.  (Which would be you, I guess.*)

Personally, I think that all responsible members of the press should voluntarily turn in their press credentials. 

And get their reporting from Michael Avenatti.

Speaking freely,

Underemployed

*For further information, please see Father Patrick J. Conroy, Chaplain for the House of Representatives.  BTW, can somebody please explain to me why the United States (remember: not a theocracy) House of Representatives has a chaplain?

Dear Nino Perrotta

Hey, Nino!

It's me, Connie Staccato.  Anthony Scaramucci's fourth cousin, once removed.  You dated my niece, Antonetta, once in high school, an experience that was probably more memorable for her than it was for you, to hear HER tell it.

What's with the goombah wave in D.C. these days, a town you couldn't get a cannoli in until last week?  First there was Anthony, then Michael Avenatti, and now you, Mr. Special Agent Pasquale "Nino" Perrotta.  (Geez, are you kidding me?)  Those jamokes must be really impressed with all you tough guys, and that's mainly because they never heard you whining at your mother because you couldn't find a clean shirt.

So you're famous now.  A real brutto job (gimme a break) providing 24/7 security for that faccia di cazzo who wants the sirens on when he hits traffic, and that nobody could pick out of a line-up if his life depended on it.  Maron', call the Godfather!  

Anyway, you got a few good vacations out of it, but you should move on, you know?  Before somebody grabs your phone.  And finds the guns in the cabinet behind the dresser up in the attic.

Just looking out for a paesan',

Connie Staccato

Special Correspondent

Dear Michael Avenatti

Dear Mr. Avenatti,

Honey, when I see you on TV, I go grab a glass of red and a few Reduced-Fat Triscuits and make it a party.  Thank you for bringing a little sump'n-sump'n back to my life.

I mean, it is so refreshing to see a man in this kabuki theater we're calling politics these days who doesn't have those little white spray-tan cups under his eyes.  And who isn't wearing a bad rug, or doing a comb-over, or Hair Club for Men.  

And who has some coglioni, for God's sake.  And knows how to defend a lady.

AND who finally stands up to that Halloween Limited Edition Orange Jet-Puffed Marshmallow in the White House.  Who my 13-year-old niece could beat at arm wrestling.  

You know.  President Spanky.  And I gratefully lay his new nickname at your Italian-leather clad feet.

Keep it coming, sweetheart.  This is the most fun I've had since January 20, 2017.  Randy Spears.  Who knew?

In bocca al lupo,

Connie Staccato

Special Correspondent

and Anthony Scaramucci's fourth cousin, once removed

(Maybe you could give him some lessons, right?)