Let me tell you a little bit about myself, folks. Let me address this wonderful crowd for a moment. So many of you. Incredible numbers. Our radio ratings, through the roof.

Lots of people are wondering where I came from - an insanely wealthy, incredibly successful, impossibly well-spoken businessman can’t just appear out of nowhere. A man authed by the time he hit Earner - a pioneer, a record-breaker. No one’s ever seen anything like it! But who am I?

Most of all, I’m a proud Italian man - yes, folks, Italian to the bone! Like a pizza margherita. They still call me Old Donnie Trumpellini in some parts. Right out of the old country. Beautiful mother Italia! I’m so Italian, I’m like Scaramouche bathed in bolognese. Have you ever wondered why I look this way? How I got this gorgeous, goldfish-scale complexion? Sicily is famous for their oranges, aren’t they? I’m a medical miracle, a physiological paragon! The day I was born, they paraded me from Palermo to Turin and back. 

Because you know what, folks? If you’re not Italian in this business, you’re a nobody! It’s like my friend Johnny-Delusional - or, Johnny Delusionallini, as he was known back in Calabria - always says, ‘If he’s not Italian, he’s a nobody’. He got that from me, the kid, but his heart’s in the right place. He’s a good kid. He’s no Godfather Disorderoni - great Italian guy - but maybe he’ll get there one day. Like the rest of my crew, all good Italian boys. Clear eyes, bigly hearts. That’s what it’s about, people. Famiglia, as us paisanos would say. 

What would this country be without Italians? True Italians such as myself. All of the totally real ones, from good peasant stock. We’re a rare breed these days. My old man Fredo Trumpellini was a working class guy and if there’s one thing for certain, it’s that he didn’t leave me any hand-outs or ingrained, xenophobic biases of any kind. No sir. I’m just a good Italian man trying to make it in this world. And we’ve got to preserve what we’ve built here. We can’t have the Irish sneaking in and taking what is ours. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my time in America, it’s that my people are the best people - people like you wouldn’t believe. Grandmama Trumpellini’s people. 

That’s what we Bigly Boys are all about. Good old Italian organised criminal activity. And that’s who I am. Trump, Trumpellini, call me what you want. What’s important is that, as a sherpa on this mountain of breath-taking, nigh-unfathomable success, we remember who we are and where we came from. Peasant stock. The old country. A self-made man who never bankrupted a casino in his life. Only wins for Donnie Trumpellini. Only wins. 

God bless. You've been a great crowd. We'll see you again soon, coal country. 

Donnie saw the lads yabbering about their italian prowess, he smiled knowing the hard work, determination and dedication the old country had done to get us where we were today.

"Donnie, They call me Donnie The Lionheartalini, could you not tell by the new suit I'm wearing." He flicks some ash from his smoke and lets out a chuckle, "so pizzas and pasta tonight at my joint?"

"Are you sure we are Italian? I'm pretty sure my Mama was a whore from Queens?"

Johnny lowered his tone to a whisper "Boss, if you were a Full Blooded Italian wouldn't you look better? You look like the Tango™ man..." he shrugged his shoulder and continued down the street before being yanked back by his collar

"Errr I mean, boss, what I meant to say was you have a complexion that most people would pay for! It's a great look, honestly boss I'm impressed."

Not wanting to cause further offence Johnny Delusionali continued down the streets. He was thankful his shoes had found a handstitched Italian label in, and his suit? Finest Italian llama. Come to think of it he did really enjoy Spaghetti and Meatballs too.

"Sure boss, I get what you are saying now. I'm as Italian as Neapolitan Icecream."

Donatello Lionheartellini, the last time we ate at yours I felt like one of those exotic jungle snakes that feeds and lies dormant for 8 weeks digesting. It was the greatest meal of my life. Just like Grandma Trumpellini used to make. A man like me - who people say, all the time, is one of the strongest, most virile physical specimens they have seen in their entire life, and for a man my age too, spectacular - needs all the food he can get. Nothing beats a good meal, Donatello. Food is one of the great pleasures of life. I eat like a king. I've got a cooler at home full of nothing but Kobe beef. Sometimes, on hot days, I'll undress and just drape myself in it, head to toe. It's unlike anything you'll ever experience, Donatello, believe me. It'll change your life.

And Delusionelli, bambino, have I told you how much I admire your suit? Listen to that crowd, they love it too! Don't mind them, Johnny - they're spectacular people, what a group, and so many! - but they follow me everywhere, Johnny, they hang on every word. What can I say? The people love me. I don't know, that's just what they tell me. It's what everyone tells me. I'm adored, I'm deified. Sometimes when I leave restaurants, I'll see them licking my plate and cutlery after I'm done, and rubbing themselves all over the furniture where I'd been seated. These people are lunatics, Johnny, but they're fantastic. What a crowd. 

But what's this I hear about you not being full blooded Italian? You're the most Italian guy I know! Italiani, as we Italianos would say. It's people like us who are the lifeblood of this mafia. Not like those damn Irishmen taking jobs away from good Italian boys. If only there were a way we could keep them out, Johnny. A sort of....fence. A fence around Ireland. Or Boston, at least. 

Kanan was upset that the Bigly boys were scheming without him. He ran over and began talking to them.

"What do I look like? Chop liver? How can the Bigly boys be planning the fences without the best Bigly of them all. Kanan!" he asked out loud. "How did you guys leave me out of this?" he asked again.

Kananiglio! Chop liver, now there's a treat. You know the Romans used to put it on everything? Bread, potatoes, salad. They even used it as a medicine! They say Caeser rubbed chopped liver on his head to make his hair grow longer - the man would've been bald as a boiled egg if it weren't for the stuff. That's a true story. Ask anybody. I used to sail with his biographer - the guy was ancient. A total bag of bones. Blind as a bat. A terrific oarsman. 

But the schemes, Kananellini, my friend, they're cooking. You know what we Bigly Boys get up to. We are a hurricane of unstoppable genius. Unbeatable. I got a letter just this morning - a world leader, in fact, an incredibly high-stature individual - and they said, 'Donald, god damnit, what a group you've got there. Those boys could be astronauts if they wanted to and instead you made them criminals, you brilliant son of a bitch'. Believe me, people, half this crew could've gone to the moon! You know what I always say about the moon, right? A small step for man, right? I came up with that. No one has ever said that before, here in the 1930's. I can't help it, iconicism pours out of me like a leaky faucet. Our countrymen will be reading a book of my quotes for years to come. And if I could say one thing to them, my fellow patriots of the future, it would be to think not what your country can do for you, but-

Oh, anyways, the scheming, people. The Irishmen. They're everywhere these days. Good Italian boys like us are losing business because of them. I'm not against Irish folks or anything - I'm sure they're great people, the good ones at least - but we Italians have gotta look out for us and ours.