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Cuneo: Donald Trump fired me

TRIGGER WARNING: I will be talking about a lot of things that pertained to my childhood. If you are terrified of kids, Westchester County or flashbacks, please move to another site. This is only for your safety.

I was incredibly fortunate growing up. This is a weird way to start a column because it sounds like I’m about to start poorly rapping about my life.

But it’s true. I grew up in the affluent Westchester County in a nice area with a backyard and jars of peanut butter. How affluent you ask? For the Fourth of July, I once watched fireworks at a country club.

How did my family get to Westchester? Well, my dad is an Italian who works in construction and didn’t kill anybody. He grew up in Brooklyn and later became a successful general contractor, and he got his start from Donald Trump. No, not Donald Trump of the nationally recognized one man/bird show “Trump-et of the Swan.” The Donald Trump who sold steaks at the Sharper Image.

Over the course of their relationship, I was able to meet Mr. Trump a few times, and one of those times happened to be at my fifth grade birthday party.



INT. LOCAL HIBACHI RESTAURANT — 2005 SO THERE WAS PROBABLY YELLOWCARD PLAYING SOMEWHERE

It was mid-June even though my birthday was in August — a classic Westchester staple to avoid anyone missing my party due to sleep away camp and/or vacation. Me and a group of guys from the local watering hole (Purchase Elementary School) were gathered around a table watching a man make volcanoes out of onions while throwing lighter fluid onto a searing hot table. In the words of a drug-infused Lord Disick, “sh*t was lit.”

This night was about 11 years ago and I was probably drunk so forgive my memory. I just remember that my dad was running late, and ESPN’s Brian Windhorst reported that we were all drinking those tiny Japanese sodas with the marble in the top for decoration/frustration because we all wanted the marble. You know the ones.

Dinner was winding down, my dad showed up and who walks in with him? No, not Ray Liotta, but good guess.

Donald J. Trump.

It was shocking to say the least, I mean come on, this was during his peak “Apprentice” days, remember Omarosa? If you remember, Trump’s signature catchphrase at the time was “You’re Fired.” Because of course it was. Of course his signature catchphrase was to destroy another person’s career, because he’s such a considerate person today.

So what did he do? He fired my ass faster than George Steinbrenner at Billy Martin’s press conference, which I am old enough to remember because I am secretly 79 years old.

I’m sure he fired everyone that night; it’s what he does best. He uses his words to try to hurt people’s feelings, which I guess was appropriate because bullying is usually left to 5th graders.

He left shortly after, he probably had to harvest organs or put on his sixth or seventh layer of Honey BBQ bronzer. But nonetheless, he showed up, and isn’t that what politics are all about?

And let’s be clear, this column is not a slight on my dad. He was surprising his son for his birthday and had absolutely the best intentions. Just like the Nintendo GameCube and Sean Paul, Donald Trump was cool in 2004. The only difference is that Sean Paul wasn’t rapping about building a wall to keep out immigrants —although honestly he could have been, I still can’t understand a word he is saying.

I appreciate the gesture, I just wish that 1) the dude didn’t turn out to be the intellectual equivalent of a leather handbag with doll hair, and 2) I got Omarosa’s signature—she was the GOAT mean person. In fact, she probably has said mean things to goats.

The party continued and it ended up later becoming my first all-nighter, the first of few that I would have because, like a baby or a lemur or a baby lemur, I get tired very easily. But forever I’ll be able to say to tell my kids that the world’s best clown showed up to my birthday party.

Danny Cuneo is a senior television, radio and film major. Politically, he has voted for Ralph Nader since 1996. He can be reached at dacuneo@syr.edu.





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