even though the thread has already ended for some of its participants (like @zogstrip, @welcomeabored, @funruly @mong others), you realise that misery arising from suffering is a perpetual component of existence and in contemplating this core to the mystery of life you spend the next 30 years practising Yoga on the top of a mountain, missing all the totes awesome threads playing across the internet.
I wish for a genie with innate powers of self direction.
Granted. For awhile, all is well. Your genie anticipates your wishes and before you even think of things to ask for, they appear. In time, you grow fond of Genie. Their eyes drew you in. You couldnât help but wonder what life would be like if the beverage you didnât know you wanted was a kiss or a wink or some other sign that your attraction was shared. If a visit to the park could become a life in Paris drinking wine and eating croissants at a little bistro.
You askedâyou knew you shouldnâtâhow Genie felt about you.
âNice enough as a boss. Not interested in romance with humans,â they responded.
As time wore on, you started wishing they would forget to fill your tank or maybe take a holiday ⌠and like that, they were gone. Leaving an empty place in your heart and a lot of chores you had grown accustomed to someone else doing.
I wish I had a reasonably successful bistro in France, visited by melancholy lonely souls with a taste for the occasional glass of pinot noir.
ETA: I solemnly swear not to do any more romantic themed corruptions unless I really really really canât help myself.
On the other hand, I get to go the next 30 years without reading the comments.
Ohmmmmmmmmmm.
inorite? one bristles at the assertion that tea from a bag is capable of brewing a tea that anyone would characterized as âreally proper.â the nerve.
Granted. You have a reasonably successful bistro in France, haunted by lonely ghosts who beg you every day for just a sip, just a quick sip, of pinot noir. Unfortunately, since they are non-corporeal they cannot actually partake of any wine. Slowly their loneliness turns to anger, and youâre screamed at every minute until you start to go insane. You canât hear your normal customers over the ghostly howls, and eventually your business loses its success.
I wish I had the ability to fly, but still maintain my human form.
Granted. The line for the TSA Scope-n-Grope starts over there, weâll need $50 for your carry-on, we apologize in advance for the lack of legroom and for the fact that we still havenât adopted the new and more liberal electronic devices policy, and youâd better maintain your polite human form even after we run out of peanuts and any drinks other than warm Fresca after weâve been parked on the runway for three hours due to snowdrifts on the runways. We remind you that you do still, technically at least, possess the ability to fly, though currently your permission to fly has been unavoidably delayed. We know you have a choice in airlines, so thank you for parking with us.
I wish I could turn invisible at will. (Did we do this one already?)
We did not.
Granted. Will cannot see you. Or Williams. Or Billys, Bills, or Willys. And, for some odd reason, when you turn invisible Karenâs canât see you either but Carolines can. It doesnât really make sense, but then, neither did rubbing that lamp in the first place. Youâre just glad you can get out of awkward moments with one of the royal princes should the need ever occur.
I wish England would make the Royals start paying taxes and force them into selling properties like it was a big game of Monopoly.
Granted. There was a military coup and the royal family was exiled, though their properties were seized as a âtaxâ to support the new regime. Their properties were auctioned off, though because of the seizure of the assets of the very rich, the only person who could afford to buy them was the new dictator.
I wish that my car would never need repairs again.
(Also, this whole game is just like this sketch.)
Granted. Your car is now entirely formed of a single solid block of titanium.
I wish someone could come up with a wish that couldnât be corrupted.
I could. But whatâs the fun in that, really?
I wish everything I touched was unchanged save for inexplicably assuming the market value of gold.
Granted: People catch wind of it and you are constantly robbed. Water prices go up every time you take a shower.
I wish for the worldâs best unadulterated cup of coffee, in a clean mug made of non-toxic substances while in a room where I will not be interrupted, and which is presented to me in a highly enjoyable, desirable way (for me) and for the whole experience to not last longer than 30 minutes.
Even in post-Proposition 13 California, somebody finds a way to levy confiscatory property taxes on your heretofore-deemed-priceless used Kleenexes. Thank you for funding all our public schools up to 593% of their budgets. And the hangman thanks you for bankrolling his beach house with the noose he tightened around your neck after the Keynesian mob began to frown upon what will eventually be termed âRatelian Inflation.â
On some level, your parents are rather proud.
I wish I typed faster than ActionAbe.
Granted: You now type 70WPM to my usual 69WPM and you canât type without looking at the keyboard.
I wish for a fresh cotton ball.
Dude⌠howâd you get into my office?!
You have my coffee. Apparently you donât get interrupted much in here.
You, Donald Peterson, receive the worldâs best unadulterated cup of coffee, in a clean mug made of non-toxic substances while in a room where you will not be interrupted, and which is presented to you in a highly enjoyable, desirable way (for you). The whole experience only lasts 30 minutes, but the regret of not getting your own wish lasts forever.
I wish I didnât ever have to wait on hold.
Oh, thatâs corrupt indeed. A 30-minute cup⌠of coffee?
Blecchh. Iâm a cocoa man. This game gets darker by the hour!
Granted. Telephones no longer react to your frantic button-mashing. Not so much as a dialtone for you anymore!
I wish Jimmy Stewart were still alive and working.
A single, happy tear rolls down my cheek.
