The House of Tang: Super Bowl XL & Hoops

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,
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Pete Rozelle. 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!
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I've been staying downtown at a hotel here in Detroit for the last ten weeks, because who wants to get shot by a crackhead in 20-below wind-chill? A few weeks back, Terrell Owens walks into the hotel bar. I'm like, "Hey, T.O. Great season, man!" Then when he leaves, I'm thinking, "Hey, T.O. Next season when you're doing your end-zone minstrel dances again, why not get Spike Lee to choreograph it for you? Same goes for you, Chad Johnson, you shuck-n-jive hot-shot!" Victory dances are not part of the Tang Method.

Peyton Manning, now there' a class act. Cut that meat! Cut that meat! Same goes for Eli. And
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Drew Bledsoe. Schtang!

Meanwhile, we've got Tang-Mail. "RdrGuy06" from "Cali" writes: "Hey, Rick. I'm representing Raider Nation! WWHHOOOOOO! YEEAAH!" Listen, the only representation the Raiders need is in their rape-counseling programs. Once again, the Raiders are no closer to the Lombardi Trophy than Shannon Elizabeth is to the Tang Juice.

"Hey Tango!" writes L-Rod from B-Town. "Funniest thing I've seen all year was when Rasheed Wallace sucker-groin-punched Josh Childress in the fourth quarter of a blowout at the Omni. Hey, Sheed, is that bald patch where they drilled a hole in your head to give you a brain?" Great point, L-Rod. Tang a Gong for you! Get it on! Tang a Gong! Get it on!
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Awesome song. T-Rex. Robert Palmer. Rock.

And how about Mighty Mouse Earl Boykins from the Denver Nuggets? Dude can run between Tim Duncan' legs while T-Dunk is squaring up for an offensive board. If E-Boy were ever on my radio show, I'd ask him tough questions like, "How do you get motivated for a game?" and "Are you totally psyched to be in the NBA?" These are the kinds of hard questions that only the Tang-monster can ask.

So here I'll be, stuck in this freezing-hell-hole of Detroit well into March Madness, bringing the Tang-News to my Tang-Base. Every time a player gets caught with a hooker (dig it, Ray Buchanan?) I'll be there, making on-point comments. Maybe something like, "Hey, Ray-get that huge black dick back in your pants!" At least I hear it could be huge. Yeah? Well, so' the Tang Sausage.

Forward we go, across the frozen tangdra, because this is The House Of Tang.

I'm Tang, and I'm out.
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