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.
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