Cosa nostra is an Italian phrase for 'our thing'. It is exclusively used to describe Italian and Italian-American Mafia organization. It can sometimes be described as La Cosa Nostra. See: Answers.com
The Sopranos was a ground-breaking series about an Italian-American crime family. Played flawlessly by the late James Gandolfini and set in New Jersey, Tony Soprano tried to be a "good family man" while running "his [Mafia] thing." Unlike our draft-dodging, wimp wanna-be-gangster-in-chief, Tony had the presence of mind to seek psychiatric help to deal with..."job-related stress."
"Our thing"...it's the only thing that explains the wise-guy tactics, the implicit loyalty pledges (denied, or not), paying off Playboy centerfolds, adult film stars and 81% of morally righteous, tell-everyone-else-how-to-live white evangelicals (or, evil-gelicals) being OK with "grab 'em by the p." Every "presidential* address" - if you want to call it that - is an intellectual incubus/succubus assault, draining the life out of any modicum of rationality, or common sense you may possess. DNA telomeres and thus human lifespans dwindle by the time he's finished a complete sentence...which is rare!
The last night of the RNC was like “The Dark Knight Returns”: the world was essentially a shit show like Gotham, and Batman screamed for 75 minutes incoherent, semi form, hand-tossed Word Salad anointing himself Bruce-Wayne-Almighty-Cheetos-Jesus savior of the planet by the strength of his will alone (no cool gadgets – just a Galaxy Smart Phone and a twitter handle he misspells as he jacks off on almost daily). The Bat’s bravery was previously demonstrated during his selfless sacrificed Vietnam five deferments to let others more worthy die in his place. See: Party of Apocalypse
His business failures are myriad, but that doesn't stop a good conman, seemingly determined to enter the Guinness Book of World Records for Olympic-level lying. Truth is as flexible as his bowels are loose, the muse for most of his twitter postings, as that can be the only valid reason a septuagenarian is up at wee hours of the morning to electronically defecate his first thoughts from tiny hands and fingers into a cyberspace toilet. The epitome of double entendre.
The North Korean summit - after commemorative plaque, self-congratulation and chants of "Nobel" by his bewildered herd cult following - was canceled. The "Libyan model" was touted by those in his cabinet that have never seen a war they didn't like OTHER people's children fighting for profit. I guess those vast negotiation skills of being a rude prick in New York City doesn't play well on the world stage. Some of his Reddit cult considered him "god emperor" once-upon-a-time. I wonder if they've sobered up now?
This is a buffoon. His narcissism doesn't allow him to admit his ineptitude or incompetence. In his twisted mind, he's a big boss on the level of Al Capone; a dark, political genius equivalent to Hitler or Pol Pot. He's more like a lapdog underling salivating at the Kingpin in Russia he'd one day like to be (and never will). Fredo Corleone has the nuclear codes, and apparently is unraveling from what little grip on sanity he ever had. He's more a poor man's idea of what a rich man looks like after a night chugging Mad Dog 20/20, followed by shots of Tequila. He's only genius on spreading lies, innuendo and birther racist nonsense. His signature "semi form, hand-tossed" signaling of balsa wood stick planes to runways between the Propecia strands on his toupee doesn't make him anymore "tough" looking than his five military deferments. His staffer's crass denigration of Senator John McCain's brush with cancer and wartime sacrifice goes un-apologized, or fired for.
On this auspicious occasion of our "reality TV" president*, with the controversy over NFL players now being fined for kneeling at games - violating their First Amendment Rights to free speech, may I suggest a new, more apropos National Anthem, since the old one does talk about slavery in the third stanza, along with the second, we don't sing? (Hey - it's "our thing"):
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Life as alpha of a werewolf pack is anything but predictable. But even Parker Berenson is surprised by the latest twist: he’s fallen in love with a space alien. Problem is, he suspects Melera, his sexy new flame, might be the serial killer terrorizing Seattle. Or maybe she isn’t. After all, just because she’s an interstellar assassin doesn’t mean she’s guilty.