Ooooooooooh! Greetings, my Earth children! I have returned from my interstellar travels and I come bearing gifts of a Galactic nature.
Sorry, girls! I didn’t bring you back none of Saturn’s rings to put on your pretty little finger. I ain’t got no Moon rocks for you to stick in your ears. And I ain’t go no Stardust for you to put up your nose, neither. But I promise that this particular space specimen will still get you high as a rocket, baby!
You can’t see it, but believe me when I say there is enough for everybody. You can’t hold it, but oh you sure can feel it. You can’t taste it, but it will fill you right up. You can’t smell it, but it sure has got some stank on it.
This gift don’t fit in no box. You can’t wrap it up. You could get a ribbon long as the Milky Way and you still wouldn’t be able to put a bow on it, StarChild. The only way to give it to you is to beam it straight to your brain via those two sonic satellites on the sides of your head. That’s right, child. I have come down from on high to bring you… the funk!
Where in the universe did I find this particularly bumptastic strain of boogy? Why, I picked up during my stay upon the Good Spaceship Vibe, where the alien creatures of the planet Getdownizon kept me prisoner against my will and subjected me to a series of unthinkable physical and mental experiments.
Feeling a little lost in space, my Solar Sister? Well, listen up because Professor Funk is about to send a meteor of knowledge crashing down onto the top of your head:
The Getdownizians are a race of highly intelligent reptilian humanoids whose entire advanced civilization is built upon their ability to convert fat, nasty funk into clean, usable energy. Don’t go reaching for a Q Tip, honey. You heard me right. It’s this freak beat that makes their lights glow, their crops grow, and, consequently, helps to bolster a rigid class system where a select few “funk elite,” those who really know how to get down with the sound, are able to maintain their power and wealth by bogarting the planet’s energy supplies.
The Getdownizians hail from a dense cluster of stars known as the Maikyafilgud Nebula in the Goddagoendgivitumi Galaxy, but ever since they discovered that they had nearly depleted their reserves of Stankonium, the metallic alloy that gives Getdownizian bass strings that signature “thwump,” they have been bippin’ and boppin’ all other this endless stretch of black velvet that we call space in search of Stankonium-rich planets to colonize and mine before they lose the groove and their entire world descends into bloody chaos.
Now don’t go sweating the fate of Mother Earth, Starshine. She ain’t got a single spec of Stankonium on her. The Getdownizians are gonna let our planetary Sister keep on cooling her way across the cosmos and all her beautiful creatures, from the lil’ birdies in the sky, to the big fishies in the sea, even those muddy little warthogs, are gonna get to go along for one far out ride.
As for us humans, we’re in for a trip of our own. You see, The Getdownizians don’t care if you’re Black, White, Brown, Purple, Orange, Green, Polka-Dotted, Striped, or See-Through. They got a pop-quiz for every brother and sister, young and old, rich or poor, and it only has question: Ya dig? Like literally, can you dig? Because The Getdownizians are on the verge of enslaving the entire human race and they need to know who is able bodied enough to work in their Stankonium mines across the galaxy. Can you get down with it? Down into the dark, damp, hastily built Stankonium mine shafts with a powerful and unwieldy laser drill? If not, Moondrop, you will be determined to be a “sustenance drain” and “disposed of” in the name of resource efficiency.
I know these transmissions are hitting you at lightspeed, brothers and sisters. I’m still trying to get a beat on our cosmic conquerors myself. When these lil’ lizards first beamed me up, I though they were just Outer Space Ambassadors of the Groove looking to exchange funkadelic vibes with any and all lifeforms they might encounter. It was clear they knew everything there is about building the kinda beat that’ll make ya bop, but they seemed to know very little about mankind, judging by the way they bluntly, and repeatedly, probed my anus and urethra.
For a blip, I thought that maybe all that poking and prodding was just a “per-funk-tory” examination to make sure that I wasn’t emitting any detectable amounts of de-vibe. Afterall, the atmosphere seemed to reaching high levels of groovy when The Getdownizians used a series of Moog riffs to communicate that they wanted to see me boogie-oogie until I just couldn’t boogie-oogie no more. Well let me tell you that the whole astronautic affair started to get funky fast! You know that I’m always up to get down and the Getdownizians were quick to lay on their taser rods if it ever looked like I might be boogie-oogied out. I thought that the taser rods were kinda bringing the heavy, but I try not pass judgement on how anybody wants to do their thang.
I felt like I could have boogie-oogied all night, but after thirteen and a half hours of boogie-oogie I collapsed into an convulsing, semi-conscious heap, at which point my captors re-oxygenated my blood, intravenously fed me a concentrated solution of amino acids, electrolytes, and amphetamines, and once again forced me to boogie-oogie to the point of muscular failure. During my eight cycles of boogie-oogying and blood doping, I started to realize that these bad daddies didn’t give a lick about my boogie-oogie and this marathon of boogie-oogie was just a way of collecting information on the limits of human endurance so that they might maximize the production of their Stankonium mine slaves. I also realized that I had developed an aortic aneurysm, but its presence only entered my cosmic consciousness when it ruptured in the middle of a particularly funkalogical slap bass solo. Thankfully, the good Getdownizians doctors had accrued enough knowledge of my anatomy by that point that they were able to perform an emergency anastomosis, but for reasons unknown to me, they still selected my urethra and anus as their surgical points of entry.
It’s hard to stay steamed at The Getdownizians when they got the kind of sound that makes your booty shake and your knees quake. They also got the kind of electric nodes that can spasm your prostate to involuntary ejaculation. I tried to tell them that if it’s a breeding program they’re after, they don’t need go through all the trouble of milking the semen out of my limp penis just to then go and artificially inseminate an ovulating “mare.” All they gotta do is lay down one of their signature slow jams, maybe slip a little rum and coke into our feedlines, and let their prisoners bump and hump a whole new generation of mine slaves into existence au natural. But all that suggestion did was earn me another round of crippling prostate shocks.
I was released from the Good Spaceship Vibe so that I might warn the world of the Getdownizians impending arrival and encourage the peaceful surrender of all nations to our new Interfunklactic Overlords. Believe me when I say that if this invasion is anything like their hooky grooves, then resistance is futile!
So come on, Earth Children! Before The Getdownizians start sorting us into workers and breeders, how about we all be dancers for one night and get down to this far out sound! Enjoy this planetary present of percussion while you can because there ain’t no funk in the Stankonium mines, baby!
