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Today I woke up in a pool of hookers. It used to be filled with water, but I find that hookers are much better to dive into. Then again, some of these broads had enough saline in their implants that, technically, the pool is still filled with salt water. I climbed out of the pool and made my way to the kitchen for a little breakfast. I had a box of Frosted Flakes and 7 grams of coke, snorted off a box of Corn Flakes. Breakfast of champions. They were Grrrrrrreat! Bring it! 

Usually I don’t get up early enough to have breakfast, but some construction workers were making a racket outside of my house. At least, that’s what I thought it was, until I realized that it was my heartbeat.

I’m glad I’m up early. I have a TV interview that I need to be fresh for. This chick is pretty hot, too. If I buy her a Porsche, maybe she’ll let me hit it. If not, well, I’ll just hit the Boxster. Who cares?

I gotta hit the road. I just got wind of the fact that my old man is planning an intervention. So I’m going O.J., and climbing over the fence of my own property. The only way I’m leaving a bloody glove behind is if I blow my nose into one of my vintage baseball mitts. Catch you on the flip side Marty.

I’m winning!


 

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.

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.


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.