Charles Rangel, Man of Action: Air Charlie

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.