Joseph "Joey No Socks" Cinque is at best a lower-level mob associate, although someone thought he was important enough to shoot in 1980. And, of course, Joey No Socks was invited to Embarrassment-Elect Donald Trump's New Year's Eve party.
Because once you've installed golden toilets in your house and married an immigrant who lets people take naked pictures of her for money, the next logical step is to invite a cheap little thief to your New Year's Eve party. Donald Trump's unerring instinct for sleaze is amazing, as highly developed as a hunting dog's delicate nose. If it's greasy and covered in either vomit or gold, Trump grabs it like it's the tender parts of a woman he's just met.
The man does have standards, though.
Cinque's white and, anyway, the old Italian-American Mafia is kinda cute. And they're white.
You're not gonna see some gold-toothed, low-pants-wearin', crack-slingin' black gangsta at one of Trump's parties. Better to get what one of what my bartender father used to call "the oil and vinegar crowd." Trump woulda thought my Pop was cool, too. Pop wore a pinkie ring, and once got arrested for stopping a bar fight by punching the police chief's son in the mouth. Pop, I might mention, was white.
Yeah. You're not gonna catch the Trumpanzee swingin' with any boyz from the hood, no matter how many people they've killed or how many times they've been shot. Ditto your Asian and Hispanic gang members. Those people are thugs, like those Black Lives Matter thugs and those black-people-shot-in-the-back-by-cops thugs.
Naah. What you want at your bloated fatback New Year's Eve party is somebody who has some thrillingly dangerous associations, but who is, by God, white.
You don't want to hang out with any black academics, either. Most of them are still honked off about that whole "slavery thing." They never forget. If you want to hang out with smart black guys, make it Ben Carson, who is probably crazy.
Donald Trump does with his money and celebrity what your idiot cousin Donny would do with the money if he won a $10 million lottery. Donnie would go to the strip club every night, and he'd throw money at the girls. He'd buy a Mercedes with wire wheels, and he'd have gold toilets in his house. Hell, Donnie would MARRY a stripper, preferably one with a sexy foreign accent and a burning desire to remain in America.
Eventually, Donnie would get addicted to cocaine, and then crack. He'd either die or burn away all his money, and he'd wind up in prison, sleeping on a mattress thinner than his stripper wife's promise to love him forever.
If you know Donnie at all, you know he's good to hang around with as long as he's poor. He works. He'll help you move. He'll drive you to the airport and back you up in a bar fight. If he wins $10 million, he may embarrass himself for a while, but he will eventually go away. One way or the other. It's Donnie's last tip of the hat to civilization.
Not so for Donald Trump. He's not going anywhere. He doesn't even have the excuse that he doesn't know how to act because he was poor all his life and then won a bunch of money.
No, the Trumpanzee has always been rich, but none of that inherited or earned wealth could keep him from running back to sleaze like a dog returning to it's own vomit.
To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com. Dion's latest book, "King of the World on $14 an Hour," is a collection of his best 2014 columns and is available for Nook and Kindle.