I was convinced that Lebron James was coming to the Apple. I had worked behind the scenes to help sweeten the pot. I arranged for a lifetime of free meals at Sylvia’s restaurant in Harlem, and movie passes at the Magic Johnson Theaters. I always thought that Magic Johnson would’ve been a greatest name ever for a porno star, but considering the way we got screwed by Lebron, I guess I was wrong.

It was disgraceful what he did. He teased us, led us on, and then not even a kiss goodnight. So I decided to pay the King a little visit to get my goodnight kiss.

I flew down to Miami and crashed the Heat’s little celebration party. I get there as the balloons dropped. I walked up to “Bron Bron” like Michael Corleone did to Fredo in Godfather II, and grabbed him by his cheeks and kissed him full on the lips. I looked him in the eye and said, “You broke my heart Lebron. You broke my heart.”

Then I ripped off my tear away suit pants, revealing my vintage belted basketball short shorts and, and my hi- top Chuck Taylor sneakers. I hate to brag, but those shorts make me look like I’m smuggling kielbasa.

I challenge him to a game of HO. That’s horse in two shots. He doesn’t want to play so I start bouncing the ball off of his head like Robert Duvall in the Great Santini. “C’mon squirt a few.” He agrees. Wrong move.

As you know Imus, I’m a baaaad man. I can sneeze with my eyes open. When I was born the only person crying was the doctor. Nobody slaps Charlie Rangel. Nobody! I take the ball behind the three- point line and scissor kick it. Nothing but cotton. H!  I then drive to the hole, 360, and tomahawk slam it through with my feet. Game over. Silly hoopster. Rucker Park is in Harlem, bitch.


While touring with MC Hammer, I was offered a chance to perform for the President and the new chairman of BP, Carl-Henric Svanberg. The President was trying to get assurances that BP would pay for all of the damage they caused, and thought a private performance with M.C. Hammer would go a long way to break the ice.

I enter the Oval Office and the President introduces me to Svanberg and one of his most trusted lieutenants.  I lock the door and as Svanberg’s guy extends his hand to shake mine, I grab it and introduce him to M.C.  Hammer; My titanium, custom made, Ways& Means Chairman’s gavel.  I find that it’s a very useful tool when you’re trying to appropriate funds. The M.C. stands for money changer. I put the lackey’s hand on the President’s desk. The President gives me a nod and says, “Hammertime.” I start pounding on the exec’s hand. My right arm was a blur, like a thirteen-year old’s watching a Jenna Jameson movie.

The President yells, “Stop! Hammertime.” Obama asks Svanberg if he’d like to drop a few bucks into the hat for the entertainment, and assures him that I have an encore left in me. Svanberg looks at me and sees me smiling and covered in blood like I’m Carrie on prom night. Bastard says he only has $5 billion. I said, “Oil rigger please” and then grabbed his hand. As you know Imus, I’m a baaad man. All of my calendars go from March 31st to April 2nd. Do you know why? Because nobody fools Charlie Rangel. I’m the reason you can’t find Waldo. I raise the gavel and then Svanberg says, “I meant $5 billion in four installments.” Silly Swede, forgetting to bring his wallet to a Charlie Rangel fundraiser.

On Sunday I kicked off my campaign for re-election. There are some members of my party who don’t want me to run, and will do anything to stop me.

I will find them and kill them in their sleep.

Anyway, before a new campaign starts I always like to have a light breakfast at a little diner in the West Village. They named a breakfast after me, The Charlie Rangel platter: 6 raw eggs, 4 fried chickens, and a half a loaf of toast.

I like chicken, Imus.

I heard you buried yours. Bitten by a rattlesnake huh? A rattler bit me once. After five excruciating days the little bastard finally died. I didn’t bury it. I ate it. You know what it tasted like? Chicken.

So I’m buttering my toast when I notice a waiter dressed as a samurai tossing a salad in the corner. Ordinarily a waiter tossing a salad in a West Village diner wouldn’t stand out at all, even one dressed as a samurai. But this guy seemed familiar.

He says, “The party wants you to retire and they sent me, Yoshi Yamaguchi ” I knew it.  Yamaguchi, “The Gay Blade." They called him that because he’d happily sing while he killed you. It’s a horrible death; dying to the sound of "Oooooklahoma," sung out of tune.

He draws his samurai sword. He shouldn’t have done that. He just signed his death warrant. As you know Imus, I’m a baaaad man. I iron my shirts while I’m wearing them. I’m a one -man army. There’s no “I” in Rangel but there is a rage. I scissor kicked my butter knife into Yamaguchi’s forehead.

The diner has a new menu item; Samurai on a stick.

Silly Dems, sending a Samurai to a Charlie Rangel fight.


Bp put on a containment cap
The plan is to stop the crap
that continues to lap
on the shores as a result of their oil rig mishap.
But if you look at a map
their failure to trap
the oil in a jiffy, in a snap,
has sapped the life of the coast.
Its way of life will soon be a ghost.
Truthfully, right now it’s toast.
Birds covered in oily turds
is just absurd.
This never should’ve occurred.
Word!

These terrorists from the Garden State
were two young men who became irate .
They’re losers who couldn’t get a date,
couldn’t find a mate.
Procreate?
That wasn’t their fate.
So they went to Newark International
with thoughts that weren’t rational.
So they tried for Somalia
and new plans for their genitalia.
That was their hope
but these stupid dopes
who should be hung from a rope
are going where they better not drop the soap.

We lost John Wooden, The Wizard Of Westwood.
I’m not a fan of any wizard; but he was great, not good.
The Hall of Fame
seems almost lame
for what he bought to the game.
A true genius is not a boastful claim.
His loss is truly a shame.
He coached great players, many became stars
like Wicks, Walton, and Abdul-Jabbar.
But Wooden was the biggest by far.
So goodbye coach
Your life’s work is beyond reproach.
It’s up to us to strive
to keep your legacy alive.

Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear.
A Bruin, that description is fair.
He watched UCLA play from the comfort of his easy chair.
Last weekend he was sitting there
when he heard the news on the air
that Wooden was gone, he just sat and stared.
He was the greatest coach beyond compare.
Fuzzy bowed his head and said a little prayer.

In March, North Korea torpedoed a South Korean Warship, killing 46 sailors. I received a call from my good friend, South Korean president Lee Myung-Bak, asking for help and warning me that the North Koreans would try to preemptively take out South Korea’s greatest weapon: Me! 

Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in. Of course they would come after me. As you know, I’m a bad man. Charlie Rangel puts the laughter in manslaughter. Think about it. I trained my dog to pick up his own poop because I don’t take crap from anyone.

I jump in a cab and head down to Korea Town to Sung’s Korean Barbecue. I ain’t no punk. I hide in plain sight. I walk in and take a table in the corner.  Then in he walks, my old nemesis, General Min Kee Moon. He’s followed by a platoon of North Korean army regulars called Moon’s platoon. Our eyes meet. Well, not quite. Moon is cockeyed, the result of our last meeting and a carefully placed scissor kick to the back of the face. 

Moon says, “You should not have come here.” 

I look over my shoulder and said, “You talking to me, Moon?”

I wasn’t trying to be De Niro, but it was hard to tell who the cockeyed bastard was looking at. He looks at his lieutenant and orders him to attack. Two lieutenants look around, point at themselves and say, “Who, me?”

I leap into action. I did a flying scissor kick and skewered half the platoon. A Rangel kabob. The rest flee in terror. Do you know what happened to the Moon? Bang Zoom. Silly bastards. Bringing a platoon to a Charlie Rangel fight.