I will do it assuming the bottles of water are vending machine size, and without teaching the mimes how to use their words, but in exchange they can transport themselves with invisible vehicles.
The mimes start in Provence.
The paperclip is a red herring. I unfold it (compulsively) and toss it away, but it coincidentally pierces a butterfly right through the thorax. The next flap of this butterfly's wings would not be solely responsible for a hurricane, but would have moved it from Greece to Portugal. So it hits Greece, which has run its course anyway, and Greece just cannot recover from the damage, but the scramble allows their fascist party (Golden Dawn) the opening to take over. More on that later.
One might think I would send the green dildo to distract Angela Merkel, but that's not nearly gay enough. In fact, David Cameron gets the green dildo, and becomes too busy to notice 10 million mimes zipping through the Chunnel with invisible motorbikes. They don't even have to pay the congestion fee (cost-effective takeovers ftw), making the route to Buckingham Palace that much quicker. The silent palace guards acknowledges the mimes' silent kinship and let them through. The Royal Babby is raised with the mime philosophy, and every CNN anchor in America begins to view miming as the height of sophistication. Meanwhile, Scotland is sick of this bullshit and passes their second independence vote.
More and more People magazine-buying Americans become mime hobbyists, allowing my mimes to blend in and infiltrate the culture. Professional mimes offering both performances and lessons become an excellent source of income for my clandestine organization. Mimes keep secrets, man.
The squeaky toy hammer gets through airport security, and I take it on a plane where I affix several wrenches, each no more than 7 inches in length, to the hammer and threaten the passengers on board unless the pilot stops to pick up some gas, which I sprinkle from the plane onto several monuments and towns with poor building codes, where mimes are ready and waiting to set them alight.
The picture, I assume, remains "of Billy Joel" no matter what, so I shoop it to look like me, and use it to convince Billy Joel that he is an identity thief with amnesia of his crime, and announce that, in fact, I did not start the fire.
The water bottles are used to put out the fires, and in return I receive numerous humanitarian honors that cement my reputation as a philanthropist and Good Guy. The empty bottles are used as the foundation for New Israel, a flotilla nation that rides along Atlantic currents, leaving nobody nearby for them to have conflict with. Palestine gets its land availability and self-governance back, and Israel gets to buy Cuban food and cigars every so often.
Meanwhile, Golden Dawn has moved to attack Macedonia and Albania, and gets them, but basically cannibalizes itself and the mimes move in to supplant their regime with my own. With several of my mimes elected to French office (lauded by French media as never telling a lie), it's time to move on Belgium and the Netherlands. Israel happens to be floating by with just the right timing to launch missile strikes (out of gratitude) against Portugal and Spain, so powerful that they surrender immediately and join up against Italy and what will soon be a brutal North African theatre.
The rest basically plays out like Risk.