Wash It, Dammit, Wash the Brain!
Once upon a time, there was a unicorn named Sir Mixalot.
Sir Mixalot was a mayor, the mayor of a small town that really wasn’t of any significance, but to those who lived in it, like all towns.
Sir Mixalot had a dog named Gibobo (Jih-bo-bo) who was a real sweatheart. As opposed to a sweetheart. His heart sweat.You may have believed that dogs did not sweat. You thought wrong.
Anyway, one day Sir Mixalot got arrested for money laundering. He was washing money, and that’s illegal in Equestria. At least that’s what the officers said, but we know the real reason he got arrested was that his mixtape was too hot. It was a fire hazard.
Nopony would admit this, no pony at all. The fire of Sir Mixalot’s mixtape brought great shame upon all the recording artists in equestria, from Countess Count-a-Tourniquet, to Sapphire Whores, and even to Gibobo (who was beginning a blossoming underground country-rap jam freestylist “career”). Sir Mixalot played his mixtape while doing his laundry, and Gibobo’s heart began to sweat, and Gibobo knew that SOMETHING MUST BE DONE, OH HEAVENS HAVE MERCY IF SOMETHING WAS NOT DONE IMMEDIATELY, IF A CONSPIRACY WAS NOT HATCHED THEN THE FIRE OF THE MIXTAPE WOULD BURN DOWN THE HouSE AND THE TOWn. So, Gibobo did only what a dog could do.
GIBOBO CALLED UPON THE POPO.
SHAME ON YOU GIBOBO.
WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT GIBOBO.
WHAT THE FUCK.
YOU FUCKING NARC GIBOBO.
“HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME GIBOBO?” cried Sir Mixalot, but Gibobo smiled in that sneaky way only a dog can, while he counted the treasures that one can only gain from a strong underground freestyle country-rap jam career (22 pennies, half of a sandwich, and a pair of highly questionable gender neutral undergarments)
Gibobo laughed maniacally, as his friend was dragged away by the wicked popo, knowing that he was free now to OVERTAKE THE UNDERGROUND. MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
So it was that the authorities arrested Sir Mixalot and through (threw) him in the slammer. But could they keep the good mayor down?
Well yes actually, they could. Sux, but that’s the way the pimple pops.
So Sir Mixalot wrote a letter to Princess Celestia asking her for help. And she said:
“Lol, k. But first you have to write me a theme song. And it better be hella dope.”
So Sir Mixalot wrote a song about her. The lyrics went something like this:
“Celestia, her derriere is the bestia, better than the restia, she makes sweat drip down my chestia.”
And these were all the lyrics of the song.
I am sure you are familiar with trap rap, and the nature of cyclical lyrics overlaid over dank, and funky, but still repetitive beats, removing the A and P from rap, so the music was simply R. No? Then I suggest you listen to 22 Chains, 2,100 SaveSage, or perhaps Little Dump and his famous: HASHTAG Poochy Gain, Poochy Gain, Poochy Gain, Spent My Rent On New Pony Fuuguraines, My Dog LOvEs SmEll PoWdereD DOUGHNUTAS MKAY.
These are all trap rap artists you should listen to, you uncultured swine. No offense to pigs, who are generally actually big fans of Trap Rap.
After all, where would the pigs get their gouuurrrrrmmmmmaaannnddeeeeeeeeeee music from, hhmmmm?? If not from the rap of the trap?
Anyway, his song was hella lit, so Celestia Pardoned him. He was mad at his dog for being a narc, but he didn’t hit his dog, because that would be animal abuse. Instead, he put his dog in a giant trebuchet and launched Gibobo and his promising country freestyle rap jam career into the sun.
As Gibobo flew into to the great beyond, his final thoughts were “Well, better to burn out than to fade away.” And then he flew into the sun and combusted. This was unfortunate, at least for him.
Next, Sir Mixalot had to catch up on mayorial duties. First thing on the top of his desk was a bill legalizing DRAGONS. Yes, Dragons. Dragons are illegal in most of Equestria. Spike only gets away with living with Twilight ‘cause he’s a slave.
Anyway, Sir Mixalot didn’t sign it, because fuck dragons, amirite? He hated dragons because they could breath fire even hotter than his mixtape.
“This is why I called the PoPo on you,” whispered The Ghost of Gibobo, “You Specieist”
“Only the sun and dragon-fire are hotter than my mixtape, Ghost of Gibobo,” replied Sir Mixalot in a soft tone, but one that gritted and tore in a way that whispers generally do not. A whisper that grated Gibobo’s ethereal spirit like sawblades on concrete, or horseshoes on a chalkboard. Why Sir Mixalot felt the need to threaten The Ghost of Gibobo with whispers is beyond even the authors of this story, for what harm you could even cause to a ghost is unknown, unknown except to Sir Mixalot and The Ghost of Gibobo, and well, they aren't speaking to anypony about such unspeakable things.
This is a really awkward topic, so let’s move on to the next bill he had to sign.
The next bill was a bill making July 5th local Celebrate a Lumberjack Day. Their little town owed a lot to the strong ponies who chopped down wood and shaped it into useable lumber. This bill, he did sign, because who doesn’t love a burly lumberjack? Mmmm, I get hot and bothered just thinking about them.
Thats weird.
The final bill he had to sign had to do with the nature of money laundering. Sir Mixalot throught that it was every Equestrian’s Celestia-given right to be able to put their money into the laundry when it got too dirty to carry around, goddammit. Sometimes your money gets dirty, and you should be able to wash it. Like brains. You know, sometimes your brain gets dirty, and the only thing you can do to make it alright is to WASH IT DAMMIT WASH THE BRAIN.
What is wrong with a good brain washing every now and again and again and again and again and again, until your brain is so washed that there is no brain, and only washing.
What?
Thats dumb, they couldn’t possibly write that into a bill of law, could they?
They could. And so they did.
What are you going to do about it, huh?
Nothing.
That’s left.
Move along now.
Yes.
We have given you but a small glimpse into the delicate nature of the Equestrian legal system. Somepony decides that there is an idea that they want the whole of Equestria to OBEY, and the success of this enslavement to an idea is entirely dependent on how many ponies that you know, how good you are at writing it down, and how many ponies are on the same level as you, to think that your idea was “allright mare, sure…….I guess we can…...make that a law?”
Why are laws dumb?
You just found out, now didn’t ya?
AnD ThIS WaS the MORALE OF THE STORAYYYYYYYY.
