Writing Exercise 1/15/14

The ingredients this time:
George Clinton
Bill Clinton
Kangaroo
Brownies

This one is straight up embarrassing, but here goes nothing!



The Semi-Annual Conference of the Society of Evil Clintons had really gone downhill, George thought. It just wasn't funky since Bill took over as Grand Poo-Bah of the Clinton assembly. Everybody knew that Hillary was really in charge; when the proceedings were done, Bill was all hot-dogs and beer, never a word of the dastardly plans he'd outlined during his presentation.
Back when George was in charge, the SEC made evil fun, it was alive, it was jumpin'. They brought down entire subcultures with subliminal messages in his album The Mothership Connection, and the collaboration with his Techno alter-ego had made Mortal Kombat one of the worst assaults on the viewing public since the Chataqua days. These days it was all cloak-and-dagger politics, covered-up affairs designed to destroy the public's confidence in their government, and now Hillary was running for president as a ploy to confuse the liberal feminist movement with her powerful execution of terrible ideas.
George had had enough of this soul-less non-funky evil.
He sidled up next to Captain Kangaroo.
“What are you doing here?” the Captain asked. “I thought they blacklisted you?”
“Hell no, baby, they can't keep a good Clinton down. How 'bout you? You know you ain't belong up in here?”
“For the thousandth time, my middle name is Clinton. Bob Clinton Kangaroo. How many times do we need to do this dance, George?”
“Lookie here, man, I ain't looking to un-funk your funkin' up all these kids you know, but I just been feelin' these Politico-types are running this mothership into the ground with all this jive-turkey talk. I been sayin' it, it's time we put the soul back in soulless evil.”
The Captain sighed and rubbed his mustache. “I know thing's haven't been the same. You should have heard about the nightmares we gave kids back in the Howdy-Doody days. We werew on top of the world, we-”
“I ain't be needing no anecdotals here, Cap. I came prepared, I just need a little help, you know because they lookin' for me.” George looked over both shoulders, then pulled a large tupperware from his gigantic mink coat. He lifted his top hat and pulled down a remote control.
“How did you get food in here?” The Captain aked. “You know Bill and Hillary scan everything!”
“You don't think this big coat is just for show, baby?”
“So what's the plan?”
“Them there brownies ain't just your ordinary brownies. They be stuffed to the roof with high-grade cannabis, just the type of funk we missin' in here. You put them out on the buffet, you know Bill won't be resisting, Hillary won't be desisting. Once everybody is dosed up real good, I hit this remote and bring the funk back alive, baby.”
Captain Kangaroo opened a corner of the tupperware and sniffed at the funk issuing from the brownies. “Those are a pretty potent potion, I'll admit, but what's this going to achieve, George?”
“Well, we-” George froze. “Look out, baby, it's Clinton Kelly at your six.”
Clinton Kelly glided up, floating on his usual cushion of air.
“What's going on over here? Bringing food and not sharing? I thought you were a classy customer, Kangaroo. And George, are you supposed to be here?”
“How's it hanging, Kelly?” George extended a hand.
“No touching, you're blacklisted George, I heard from the techno George Clinton. Look, I know you don't mean any harm, but you should go before Bill and Hillary get done in the Dirty-Dealing Back Room.”
“Kelly, why don't you float off and mind your own business?” the Captain said.
Clinton Kelly scowled at him. “You're just jealous you're not gay, so you don't get to fly like a real Evil Genius.”
Kelly glided away, a trail of glitter filling the air behind him.
“Okay, Kangaroo,” George leaned in close, “We gotta do this before Kelly blows the whistle.”
“That guy's always blowing somebody's whistle.”
Captain Kangaroo scurried away toward the buffet table, where a group of finance moguls that shared the Clinton name were schmoozing. The Captain opened the tupperware, and noses perked up all around the room. George watched as people gravitated towards the buffet, desperate for a taste of that funky junky rama lama ding dong. Now this was what evil should look like.
Within minutes everybody was feeling George's vibe, and he hit the remote. The roof crashed open and the Mothership came down, carrying the P-Funk All Stars, already locked in a seriously groovy jam. Bill and Hillary rushed out from the Dirty-Dealing Back Room, but it was too late.
“We got the funk!” George hollered at them. “Forget about that junk!”
He pointed his crystal pimp cane at the Clintons and a blast of Green Funky Evil shot out, bringin the Clintons down to cinders.

The crowd cheered. Now Evil was fun again.

Writing Exercise 12-31-13

Here's another great writing exercise that Steph gave me.  Rules are the same as last time: 30 minutes, Google use allowed, story must have a beginning middle and end.
The ingredients this time were:
The Beatles
Crochet
Lemons
Uranus
I ran out of time, so I added a little note to explain where the plot was going to end up.
Enjoy!


 “Do we have any more scotch left?” Ringo asked as he put the Yellow Submarine into auto pilot.
“I think we've run out,” George replied, putting down his crochet. Ringo couldn't tell if it was supposed to be a sock or a stocking cap – George was never very good at arts and crafts.
“Don't tell me John's gone and drunk it all already?”
“Mmm, I'm afraid so,” said George picking his needles back up.
“But we haven't even passed Jupiter yet!”
“Well, you know how things get when he and Paul are writing. They use everything.”
“I've got half a mind to go back there and give them a piece... of...it.”
“Well, I don't think that's wise, you've only got half left!”
Ringo jumped out of the Pilot's chair and floated across the cockpit doing a lazy back stroke.
“I wouldn't bother them if I were you!” He heard George saying as the door slid shut behind him.
Down at the end of the corridor, past several rooms filled with toys, musical instruments and great piles of marijuana, he found John and Paul floating in a dizzy circle, surrounded by wrinkled sheets of paper, strings of beads, magic carpets, and a cluster of empty bottles and lemon rinds.
“Don't tell me you two have gone and used up all the lemons too!” Ringo said as he floated into the room.
Paul looked up from his toy piano. “It's not our fault! We were just in here trying to think up a few new songs, and a couple big purple things appeared and drunk all the booze!”
“The rum too?”
“Sorry to say, little Ringo,” John's voice came from the ceiling, “but it's all gone. They've even took the Martian beer we picked up.”
“But what about all the lemons? Why are they all mashed up? I just fancied a spot of scotch with a twist you know, heavy burden this is, piloting the Sub through space-”
Paul began singing “You know it's a heavy burden... What do you think, John, maybe in G minor?”
“Piloting through space...” John continued, in a lower key. “Yeah, but it needs a bright middle eight, something... Crushed up lemons on the floor...”
Ringo could see that these two were going to be no use.


Back in the cockpit, Ringo found George on the controls, a long stretch of frayed, colorful material flowing from his head.
“So it was a stocking cap, then?” Ringo asked.
“A scarf,” George replied, “but I made it too long so I'm going to use it as a turban. Did you find anything to drink? Bit parched meself.”
“Well you were right about those two, they've gone off together. But they said something about a pair of big purple things appearing and taking all the booze – even the Martian beer.”
“Aha!” George said. “I wish you'd said that earlier.”
“Why?”
“I saw a blip there as we passed Uranus. Uranians love Martian beer. And I think they're purple too.”
“How do you know that?”
“Well they can't be green, can they? Whole planet's green, they'd be bumping into each other all the time.”
“Very sound logic, Georgie.”
“Well, we'll have to turn this rig around!”


Uranus was a very strange place indeed. Inside the gas giant, millions of great brown and blue rocks were floating everywhere, and it seemed to be on these that the fat, purple Uranians made their little cities.
“How do we find our booze?” Ringo asked as George swung the Sub around a pair of rocks.
“We just deploy the Booze Hounds! I installed them before we left Venus.”
“Oh, I see. Marvelous, get on with it, then! Me throat's getting scratchy and I can't lose me voice. Got to sing 'Octopus' Garden' at the gig on Pluto.”
“Don't worry, they can find anything, so long as it's booze!”
George pulled a long red lever and there was a loud clunking noise from deep within the ship. A voice announced that the Booze Hounds had been released, accompanied by a twanging Sitar line.
“You had to put the Sitar in there, didn't you George?” Ringo said.
“Paul and John never let me put it in the songs anymore! I've almost gone out of practice!”
George steered the Sub through the maze of rocks until they came to one that saw sporting a clunky, flatulent music that drifted through the gassy atmosphere. The Booze Hounds began barking madly.
“I'll bet our booze is in there!”
“I'll get John and Paul, Maybe we can lull them to sleep with a lullaby!”


The whole band was assembled on the roof of the Yellow Submarine, instruments in hand. Each wore a different psychedelic or paisley space suit.
“What should we play them?” John wondered.
“How about 'Goodnight?” Ringo offered.
“You just want to do that one because you get to sing it!” Paul hollered over his communicator.
“Do not! It's a lullaby! We need a lullaby!”
“How about 'Something'?” George tried.



[NOTE: I ran out of time. I was going to have them disagree on what song to sing, then get in a fist fight. The Uranians would then find them, kick them off the planet, and the poor Beatles would be forced to do their gig on Pluto dead sober.]