(*Wayne and Garth do the twiddida~Twidida`Twidida~~~)
You mean one that leaves him drooling in a wheelchair, with a colostomy bag, requiring 24 hour care. He has to rely on a spiteful Haitian refugee for a caregiver because no one who knows him will do it. He never gets any visitors, when Don Jr. does come by its just for the camera's. The son reduces to working at a Hotel front deask doesn't even come up to the room and refuses to let them roll his smelly ass down to where he sits a respectful amount of time, diddling away on his phone about how he's still working on restoring the family reputation.
He sits alone, mute, his fingers too paralyzed for twitter, in a chair with a bag of his own shit leaking just a little in his lap, spittle stains all over his shirt and the only joy he experiences is every other Tuesday when the home serves chocolate cake for desert. He can't have two pieces but if he's been good he might get a little cup of low sugar vanilla ice cream with it. He can't really communicate, can't talk but he makes animal like calls when he's in pain. Carmella, his assigned custodian, smiles just a little bit when she hears that quiet, pathetic moan because his pain is one of her great joys. The doctors say he's still happy and upbeat, but again, that's for the press. She knows his torment, and she knows that God is watching.
People usually shorten her name to "Carma", and Carma can be a bitch.