Granted! We all get fantastically drunk, and get you kicked out FOREVAH!!!
I wish for a classic bug, fully restored!
Granted! We all get fantastically drunk, and get you kicked out FOREVAH!!!
I wish for a classic bug, fully restored!
Worth it!!!
Granted.
Say hello to pterygotid eurypterid, fully restored… to life!
I wish my dog would stop barking.
Granted.
All movies are now musicals and Bono stars in EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.
Movies stop being made after 2016.
I still wish my dog would stop barking at nothing.
GRANTED. Your dog now barks at everything.
Well folks, we’re done.
No more wishes to corrupt.
YOU HAD ONE JOB @ACTIONABE!
Wait! No! I wish I wouldn’t have forgotten to make a wish!
I shall mend the rift…
Your wish is granted. Your dog now sees the world with new eyes. She barks at the robin that just flew by. She barks at the wind bending the grass. She barks at the way the sun shines down and makes things hot. She barks at her love for you. It’s all she can think of now.
I wish for dealers of intoxicants not to be flaky…
Granted!
Now the thread no longer makes linear sense. Stackoverflows and division-by-zero errors replicate across the CDN. Slowly, the servers at Discourse central grind to a grinding, sparky halt.
Packets across the 'net slow down, jam in their tubes.
Over the course of a few, desperate hours, worldwide information traffic ceases to traffic.
The next morning, newspaper editors around the globe are chortling with glee as Silicon Valley burns.
I wish I would go to sleep.
Yǫ͖̬͍̜͕u̠͔ ̤̹̰͓aŗ̜͖̩̳̞͉e̡͍̭̠̝ ͉͍͎͢n̶̙o̤͡ẉ a̫̺̕s͢l͓̩͍ͅe̮ep̹̳̯̹̺̜̖.̪͔̠̝͚̱̹͟ ̟̣̮̘̥̞
I wish my legs were made of spaghetti noodles.
Well, what with granting the previous wish and making a wish of his own, technically he had two jobs.
Granted. Zzzzzzzzz… Two minutes later your eyes pop open, with one thought behind them: GOTO 10. You wish you would go to sleep…
Granted. Your discovery of alcoholic moisturizers makes back-alley pushers and barkeeps alike soft and supple, but also makes your favorite intoxicants taste like Nivea.
Granted. Alas, I haven’t yet made it to the Dog Haus, and I am famished.
I wish it was easier to keep up with this thread, but I’m starving so I gotta go.
Granted.
You’re fired. Now you can keep up with every thread!
There’s no food in the fridge, you are about to lose your house and the wife left, but hey, at least now you’re a regular.
I wish I didn’t have to attend so many meetings, AND still had a job.
Granted! Your job is now to listen to the poor-quality recordings of every meeting in your company and transcribe them to text. However, you no longer need to attend them.
I wish for Hayley Atwell to become the next incarnation of the Doctor on Doctor Who.
Granted! However, due to a technicality in Ms Atwell’s unusually byzantine Marvel contract, the Doctor has now become an honorary Avenger. Which wouldn’t quite be nerd-hell, except for the fact that Disney, in its ineffable wisdom, decides to reboot Doctor Who as a tween-oriented shitcom on the Disney Channel. Now even Robert Downey Jr. spits on the sidewalk at the mention of your name, you monster.
I wish diet soda tasted just as good as its sugary counterpart, and was just as harmless to us as distilled water.
I always did want the Daleks to have a laugh-track.
Granted. But it’s now so popular that each can is embedded with a tracking device courtesy of the NSA.
I wish to have all my favorite shows that I currently can’t get on first run since I ditched cable (like Doctor Who and Game of Thrones) instantly available via a streaming service that streamed literally EVERYTHING and was legal.
Doctor Who would make a really good Disney, Jr. flat-animated (not computer) show.
Super-extra bonus points if its stop-motion by Aardman.
Granted. However, Internet Service Providers cannot handle the new demand for video services, and compensate/take advantage by lowering data caps and charging obscene amounts in overage charges. The service is legal, and has everything you’d ever want to watch, but you cannot afford the bandwidth to watch more than one episode a month. Choose wisely!
I wish that I was motivated to write stories more often.
Granted! Your index finger sprouts an outgrowth of bone in the perfect shape of a fountain pen nib, with a never-ending supply of blood for ink. It throbs ceaselessly, and the only relief is to be found by scratching that bone spur against foolscap (better put in an order at Office Depot, now that it’s Back-To-School season; the stuff’s in short supply). But you soon realize that random scratchings won’t do. There must be Plot, and there must be Character Development, and above all there must be Originality or soon the pain in your hand becomes unbearably, excruciatingly searing. There’s your motivation: you are henceforth damned to write story after story after story without pause until the sun burns out, or else every axon and dendrite in your hand will make violent, star-hot war upon each other, and you’ll wish you still had teeth with which to gnaw through your own wrist.
The stories, however, will be reasonably well-received, and you’ll amass a modest shelf of plaques and testimonials for your pains.
I wish this were more metaphoric than it is.