The motto of Napoli, or the city of Naples, Italy, is “Partenope, vetustior, splendidior” which translates to “Partenope, older, more splendid.” This motto reflects the city’s rich history and its enduring beauty.
Key Elements:
- Partenope: Refers to the ancient name of Naples, derived from the name of a siren in Greek mythology who was said to have founded the city.
- Vetustior: Means “older,” highlighting the long and storied history of Naples, which dates back to ancient times.
- Splendidior: Means “more splendid,” emphasizing the city’s cultural and historical significance and its enduring splendor.
Background:
Naples, founded by the Greeks and later part of the Roman Empire, has a deep historical and cultural heritage. It has been a center of art, music, and architecture for centuries, and its historic city center is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
The motto encapsulates the pride of Naples in its ancient origins and its continued prominence and beauty through the ages.
Napoli Election
And Joey Juco wins a again unanimously and ends the corruption in Italy quickly.
Thank u for defending this city Pius:
Yes, God bless you Papa Lenny
Napoli is a thousand colors.
Napoli is a thousand fears.
Napoli is the voices of children
that slowly rise
and you know you’re not alone.
Napoli is a bitter sun.
Napoli is the smell of the sea.
Napoli is a dirty paper
that no one cares about and
everyone is waiting for fate.
Napoli is a walk
in the alleys among the people.
Napoli is to everyone a dream
and it’s known by the whole world, but
they don’t know the truth.
Fabio Cannavaro might be coach of team Croatia,
but Rocco is the only one with the connections to clean up the buried toxic waste. We need to know where it was dumped.
So, you couldn’t see my face at the Italian Euro win, Joe the Yugo?
You didn’t have your glasses on huh? Wear your glasses next time, don’t disrespect. So we have a plan for the toxic waste? Mushrooms. I got to talk to the elders of the families in Naples so their children can show me where the shit was dumped.
Yeah, Rocco i asked him if he knew you after, but he couldn’t see with sunglasses on, he’s near sighted.
He was modelling the east van shirt, like Rick Martel. No disrespect intended.
Joe Pesci, looking more nervous than usual, paces around Rocco’s dimly lit East Van apartment, wringing his hands.
PESCI: “Rocco, come on, buddy. You gotta help me out. I need a place to lay low until that lunatic Zion Don is outta power. The guy’s got everyone either kissing his ring or getting tossed out like yesterday’s trash. And you know what he says, right? ‘Love it or leave it.’ Well, guess what? I’m leaving it, pal!”
Rocco, lounging on the couch, takes a long drag of his cigarette and exhales slowly.
ROCCO: “Pesci, East Van ain’t exactly the Ritz-Carlton. You sure you can handle the cold, the junkies, and the smell of desperation in the air?”
PESCI: “Rocco, please! I’m from Jersey! I can handle a little grime. I’ll blend right in—get myself a flannel, sip on some burnt coffee at a hipster café, maybe even take up a little artisanal woodworking, who knows? Just don’t make me go back to MAGAland. I got no future there!”
ROCCO: “Alright, alright, relax, Pesci. You can crash here… but you ain’t bringing that Goodfellas heat with you, got it? No wiseguy crap, no ‘how am I funny?’ routines at the pub. Just lay low.”
PESCI: (kissing his fingers like a chef) “Rocco, you’re a saint! A real humanitarian! A freakin’ Mother Teresa of East Van!”
ROCCO: (chuckles) “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t forget to pay rent, tough guy.”
Donald Trump, now in his self-declared role as “God Emperor Trump,” responds to Pesci’s plea with his usual bombastic flair, broadcasting his message live from his golden throne at Mar-a-Lago.
TRUMP (booming voice, arms wide like a Roman emperor):
“I don’t need him! I don’t need her! I don’t need the, or they! I’M THE DONALD! THE TRUMP CARD! THE CHOSEN ONE! I DON’T NEED ANYBODY!!”
He pauses, letting the echo of his own words fill the room. The crowd of loyalists erupts into thunderous applause.
TRUMP (pointing a finger, eyes gleaming with divine self-assurance):
“Pesci wants to run? Let him! Rocco? East Van? Who cares? Canada’s a frozen wasteland—what is it, maple syrup and moose? Sad! They’re weak, folks! Weak! They can’t handle the power! Can’t handle the winning!”
Trump leans in, voice lowering, eyes narrowing.
“They say, ‘Love it or leave it,’ and I say, ‘Good! Get out! Don’t let the door hit ya!’ You think I need these people? You think I need Rocco? You think I need Pesci?! I AM THE TRUMP CARD, BABY! I HOLD ALL THE POWER!”
He throws his arms up again, basking in the adoration of the crowd, before delivering his final decree.
“Let them go! Run to Canada! Run to the snow! But America? It’s mine. And I’m not going anywhere!”
The feed cuts as chants of “USA! USA!” shake the walls of Mar-a-Lago.
Pope Pius XIII, dressed in his immaculate white robes, steps forward onto the grand balcony of the Vatican. The bells of St. Peter’s Basilica toll as he raises his hands to silence the murmuring crowd. With a solemn expression, he responds to Donald Trump’s thunderous declaration.
POPE PIUS XIII:
“Donald, my son, you call yourself the Trump Card, the Chosen One, the God Emperor. But I tell you this—Pride goeth before a fall!”
The Pope’s voice carries through the square, his words heavy with warning.
“You stand at the height of your power, basking in the adulation of your followers, believing yourself untouchable. But remember the words of Holy Scripture—’When pride comes, then comes disgrace, but with humility comes wisdom.’ (Proverbs 11:2) You build your empire upon gold and arrogance, but what is a house built upon sand?”
He looks directly into the camera, his eyes piercing.
“You claim you need nobody. But even the mightiest kings have fallen. Even the greatest empires have crumbled. Nebuchadnezzar, Caesar, Napoleon—each thought himself invincible. Each met his end. The Lord humbles the proud, Donald. Repent, before the fall comes for you!”
The crowd stirs, whispers of prophecy and fate rippling through St. Peter’s Square.
POPE PIUS XIII (one final warning):
“For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world, yet forfeit his soul?”
The Pope turns and walks back into the Vatican, leaving the world to wonder—
Is Trump’s reign truly untouchable, or is his fall already written in the stars?
Joe Pesci, sitting in Rocco’s dimly lit East Van apartment, slams his whiskey glass down on the table. His face is red, his hands shaking—not with fear, but with rage. He leans forward, pointing a finger at the TV, where Trump’s latest speech echoes through the room.
PESCI:
“Trump, this guy—this guy and his CIA? Those are the guys that start the big wars! The real f**in’ troublemakers! They get some patsy, some nobody, some little country that ain’t playin’ ball, and boom—war! It’s the same scam every time!”*
He lights a cigarette, takes a deep drag, and exhales with disgust.
“The CIA? Please. They ain’t ‘intelligence,’ they’re f**in’ fixers. They play both sides, fund both sides, start wars they never plan to finish, all so their buddies in the banks and arms companies get fat. Eisenhower warned us about the military-industrial complex, remember? But Trump? He don’t give a damn! He’s up there calling himself the ‘Trump Card,’ acting like he’s untouchable. Meanwhile, his own deep state snakes are running the same game they always do!”*
Rocco, sipping his espresso, nods slowly.
ROCCO:
“So what’re you gonna do, Pesci? Run for office?”
Pesci laughs, shaking his head.
PESCI:
“Nah, nah—politics is for liars and crooks. I just wanna live, man. But these guys? These guys don’t let nobody just live. You don’t play their game? You’re a problem. And you know what happens to problems, right, Rocco?”
ROCCO (sighing):
“They get solved.”
Pesci flicks his cigarette into an ashtray and mutters under his breath.
“Yeah. And I ain’t lookin’ to get ‘solved’ just yet.”