How' it flowin', Tang-o-nauts? I'm stuck here in Detroit, Michigan, home of Super Bowl XL-although the way I've been eating those buffalo wings at Hooters, they should have called it Super Bowel
XL. Tingo-Tango-Tongo! This is The House Of Tang!
Detroit. The Motor City. Motown. The place where Ron Artest
once cleaned some fat retard fan' clock, where Dennis Rodman
played ball before he became a bridal-dress-wearing queer and where Ty Cobb
beat up black people after every home game. Hey, I've got an idea. Let' bring those
days back. Tang bang!
Great location for a Super Bowl, NFL-Detroit in February. Thanks a lot,
. A true Tangmaster likes to be able to walk around outside before a game so he can take in the air. This didn't occur to the NFL front office folks, who all had crap implanted into their brains. My balls have climbed so far up my Tang-sack that I probably won't see them 'til the MLB All-Star break.
Every Super Bowl should be in Miami or, even better, San Diego, where a sexy pair of fun-bags is an admission requirement into the city, much less Quaalude Stadium
or wherever the hell the Chargers play now. But everyone in D-town wears more layers than Rafael Palmiero'
steroid-laced wedding cake. 'Fess up, Raffy! Tang-a-thon!