Corrupt The Wish
So there's a web board I frequent where they make me take down my pants and spank me. Of course, it's a web board so I have to do the actual spanking while they type things like, "Oh yeah! SOL's been a baaad boy! You like that bad boy? Huh? Do ya'?" And I do like it. I really do. Anyway, that's got nothing to do with the title of this thread. On the web board, there is a long running thread by this very name. The idea is some one makes a wish, the next person to post grants it, but in a way that corrupts it that is ideally interesting or at least funny. Then you make your own wish for some one else to work over. It's a blast and I'll go first.
I wish I had a million dollars.
posted by SuperOceanLad at Wednesday, March 29, 2006
58 Comments:
You get a million dollars, but you also get "If I Had A Million Dollars" by the Barenaked Ladies stuck in your head, playing endlessly, for the rest of your life.
I wish I had some nice, comfy boots.
7:43 AM, February 27, 2006
You try on the boots and man, they are comfortable, almost pervertedly so. Essentially the polar opposite of Steve Martin's Cruel Shoes. So delighted to have the opportunity to purchase footgear of unparalleled comfort and elegant fashion, you sign on the dotted line without reading the fine print. Aparently part of the asking price was.......YOUR FEET!
Mwah ha ha ha!
I wish that Matt had size 13 feet since he wont be needing those boots anymore.
10:57 AM, February 27, 2006
Matt gets size 13 feet but they're attached to the back of your knees so you have to drag him around everywhere you go.
I wish to become enlightened.
1:45 PM, February 27, 2006
You become enlightened, but everywhere you go, you have to look at paintings of yourself sitting naked in the middle of a pond on a lotus leaf, and people keep stealing little scraps of your shirts and praying over them.
I wish I had a girlfriend.
7:07 PM, February 27, 2006
You have a girlfriend but you're both stuck on a submarine with a hole. The water's close to the ceiling ...
I wish I was a famous songwriter.
11:30 PM, February 27, 2006
You become a famous songwriter, but everywhere you go, you have to look at paintings of yourself sitting naked in the middle of a pond on a lotus leaf, and people keep stealing little scraps of your shirts and praying over them.
I wish I had a jet airplane.
11:40 PM, February 27, 2006
Your wish, granted, you have a jet airplane. In fact, you've had this jet airplane since 1991 when you bought it while extraordinarily drunk. It's been sitting at an airport in Saskathewan ever since. In the intervening years it's been sitting the wings have fallen off and the cockpit has become a home for misguided beavers. Additionally you signed a hangar lease agreement. Being drunk and new to the world of jet ownership, the rates were extraordinary. You know owe the Saskatchewan Sunny Day Sky Park over 19 million dollars and they don't take checks or no for an answer.
I wish that Matt is not killed by the snow mafia that runs the airport.
11:22 AM, February 28, 2006
(me too!)
2:17 PM, February 28, 2006
The snow mafia decides to ignore Matt. Instead, they come after you with their ninja-like snow yankees! Everywhere you go, snow yankees leap from nowhere performing "grabs" and "520's" and landing on your head for extra points.
I wish I was lying on a beach eating fruit and swimming.
6:12 PM, February 28, 2006
You are, the beach is in Antartica and there's roughly 1000 foot of ice between you and the sand, the fruit is rancid and your allergic to it and you do manage to make 2 entire strokes swimming before you freeze solid and are eaten by an orca.
I wish the orca doesn't get a taste for Kliphouse flesh and move to Jersey to stalk the clan.
7:41 PM, February 28, 2006
Granted, the orca does not get the taste for Kliphouse flesh. The clan is saved from orca jaws. In fact, the orca loses all taste for flesh entirely, and becomes a vegan orca. As it happens, this orca was one of the most admired of his ilk in the sea, a veritable orca messiah. Following his example, orcas throughout the world renounce flesh and choose sea veggies instead.
The seal population skyrockets. Seals, no longer heavily pursued at sea, spend less and less time on land, and get lazier and stupider by the generation. The phrase "lazy and/or stupid as a seal" floods the human world.
Soon, nets cast at sea quite reliably capture hundreds of seals. Seal skin becomes cheaper than dirt, and whole lines of inexpensive clothing are made from it. Targets and Wal-marts throughout the world reek of seal leather. Cotton fields go fallow, as people happily gambol about in seal-pelt shorts and tees.
In the end, while walking down the street in your ultra-rare denim jeans, someone leaps out from an alley and kills you for them. At the eulogy, it is said that while you will be missed, you were dumb as a seal to go out in those coveted jeans.
I wish I had no fear.
8:41 PM, February 28, 2006
You wake up with no fear and decide you've been wasting your time taking the elevator down from your penthouse apartment. It would be much faster to jump from the balcony. You jump and fall to your death.
I wish it was my birthday.
11:46 AM, March 01, 2006
It is your birthday! Unfortunately you wrote this on the day you believed to be your birthday, I read it the following day which is now your birthday. This has totally mucked up the time space continuum. Thanks for the wish, Klip, cause the rift you created unleashed dinosaurs and bellbottoms on an unsuspeciting populus, way to go, dickhead. Oh, and just so you don't think, "Cool, I love dinosaurs and now that bellbotoms are back I can pull mine out of the closet" one of the dinosaurs pooped on to your house, not only does it smell really really bad, there is half digested tiranosaur all over your bellbotoms.
I wish I had drunk less last night
1:33 PM, March 02, 2006
Okay, fine. You drank less last night. Considerably less. "I hardly believe it," you say. I can understand, because nothing changed about your hangover.
The reason it is hard to believe is because everything in the DelMarVa area is SHRINKING. So yes, you drank less, in an absolute sense, but of course you did not notice it. No big deal, of course, until you try to go to Lancaster for a gig.
Then the drive seems surprisingly long. And you are squashed in your car by a playful raccoon long before you even get to York.
Heh.
I wish I had more time.
11:46 PM, March 05, 2006
Your wish is granted. Suddenly you see the concept of time as a three dimensional entity that you can enter and leave at any point. Of course other become aware of your mastery of time and begin putting paintings of you naked on a lotus leaf next to klipper's. Oh and they feel comfortable whenever they see you to talk endlessly about themselves because well you're in no hurry.
I wish I could travel the world.
10:45 AM, March 06, 2006
Poof! Granted, Elias Infiniti, world traveller, umm, except it's not this world, or all of it anyway, it's Disney World, oh, and I should be more specific, your are doomed to travel the canals of the It's A Small World Ride for as long as you live and since your last name is infiniti, I'd imagine that's quite a while. Every once in a while you snap and leap bare chested from the boat and tackle one of the robotic French kids and use his dismembered limbs to flail through your cybernetic enemies, but always soft at heart, the tears of the children who only wished for a boat ride and a delightful tune are horrified by your understandable savagery. Then, like sysiphus, you remake the ride, exactly as it was, only to drive you mad once more and so the cycle continues.
Oh yeah, and since Disney World aint free, Disney gives you a job answering fan letters for goofy which you do 8 hours each night as your lonesome little boat circles this world of nightmare music.'
I wish Elias finds some hope and joy in his toils.
SOL
12:55 PM, March 06, 2006
Yoru wish is happily granted. Elias awakens one morning to find that his reality has been changed somehow. As he swims to the about his new dunderwater domicile he looks at his webbed hands laughing, free from Goofy. While poor superoceanlad discovers that in the Conflict on Antecedent(sp) Earths he has replaced his fellow hero in continuity.* And Goofy makes him incredilbly uncomfortable with his micromanaging of fan letter responses and tendency to lean a little to close with the big snout of his.
*editors note: As chronicled in issue #2 of Crisis on Antecedant Earths.
I wish a six turned out to be a nine.
1:45 PM, March 06, 2006
6 is a 9 and 9 is 6 which makes 69 the same as 99 and 99 the same as 69 so every time you 69 it's totally gay.
I wish for a turkey sandwich on rye bread with lettuce and mustard. And -- and I don't want any zombie turkeys, I don't want to turn into a turkey myself, and I don't want any other weird surprises -- you got it?
4:00 PM, March 06, 2006
You get a turkey sandwich. It is delicious. The bread is as fresh as it gets, with just the right amount of rye seeds on the crust. The tomaotes are real tomatoes, not those rubbery, pink GMO abominations they sell at the grocery store. The lettuce is romaine. Do you like yellow mustard or dark? Whichever you prefer, that's what you get -- all on a lovely Saturday afternoon.
A couple of friends (who shall remain nameless) drop by and invite you to lunch. "No thanks," you say, happily patting your belly. "I just ate the perfect sandwich and I'm full."
So off they go. You go take a nap.
When you wake up, you download the latest BSG from i-Tunes, because you missed it last night for some reason, and then you watch it. It's a pretty good one. You realize that your fears about jumping the shark were premature.
After that, you walk the dog, read a magazine, eventually floss, etc.
As a matter of fact, life goes on pretty normally for you.
Years later, you die at the ripe age of 95, having had your ups and downs, but having lived a life that was pretty much okay.
Meanwhile, your unnamed friends went to lunch in Charles Village, where they sat mere feet away from Lorne Michaels, whom they immediately recognized.
They were thinking of ways to strike up a conversation with him, when suddenl Lorne, in a fit of obvious emotion kicked back in his chair, stood up and cried, red-faced, to his dining partner, "I mean, where the hell does a guy have to go on this green earth to find a tall, handsome, kinky-headed dude who can tell a mean Amish joke?? Where are the jokes about Jesus and Kool-Aid, for Chrissake??"
Everyone ignored the Jesus/Christ "pun," and your friends grappled for Lorne's attention. They told him that they might know just the person he was looking for, but he was skeptical.
Your friends rushed to their car to get you and bring you to meet Mr. Michaels, but as they bolted into the street, they were abducted by a throng of chattering gypsies and never seen again.
I wish I knew what I'm going to do next year.
9:47 PM, March 06, 2006
Oh you know, you know just what to do next year, except next year never EVER comes. Each year, as you meander towards decrepatude, you beam excitedly at 11:49 PM on Dec. 31st thinking, "Man, I know just what to do next year, I'm going to have a few drinks to celebrate" A few turns into many, the night gets quickly hazy and you wake up the next morning realizing, "My god, it's not next year, it fucking this year again! Dear God, why do you mock me!"
As delightfully meandering and butterflyian as that last corruption wish was, I wish Matt had taken the Simpsonian Bate I dropped in the last wish.
9:57 PM, March 06, 2006
Such is my command. Matt dives head-first into a Simpson's reference. Although he is not exactly sure which episode you are talking about, he whips off a corrupted wish wherein you end up in a parallel universe in which your yellow-skinned family (complete with blue-haired wife and kids with lots of little triangles on their heads) have never heard of turkey sandwiches.
You leap to your time-machine toaster, and depress its little toaster-pressy-thingy and whoosh, you disappear. In your absence, one of your tine-headed kids looks out the window and says, "Oh, it's raining," as the sky is filled with a descending hail of -- turkey sandwiches!
It's funny.
TOO funny.
Like an atomic blast to the retina and eardrum, Matt's corrupted wish sears the funny centers of your brain beyond repair.
For you, nothing is ever funny again. For the rest of your life, no matter the comedy to which you are exposed, all you will ever do is comment, blandly, "Hm. They've got a point." Or, "Damn, that seems to make no sense at all."
I wish someone would do my laundry.
10:32 PM, March 06, 2006
::WOP:: "I'm sorry, it sounded like you just said "Wop" said Matt. "Wasn't me" said SOL and pointed over there, "Maybe it was them". A sleek white spaceship had appeared, half in the house, half out. White robots were pouring out of the hatch with krickitt bats. "Take us to your laundry" one said. "It's right here" said another. The robots gathered the laundry and loaded into the ship. "Wait a minute!" Matt said. A robot gave SOL a good whack in the scaly knee with a Krickitt bat and looked forebodeingly at Matt. "Forget it" said Matt. The robots got back in the ship and ::Whoosh:: disappeared.
1:35 PM, March 07, 2006
I wish Klipper had posted a wish.
3:49 PM, March 07, 2006
Your wish is my command:
I wish I knew everything there was to know in this world.
10:09 PM, March 07, 2006
You knew it, but you forgot, now it's there, knocking around the corners of your brain driving you mad Mad MAD!!!!
I wish I wish I hadn't killed that fish.
11:42 PM, March 07, 2006
You didn't kill that fish. It crawled further upshore after you left, a little dazed but ready to evolve.
Trouble is, you knocked something out of whack when you sat on it. Turns out "man" evolved from the feline.
When you returned to your own time, you are hunted and captured by angry feline people who keep you tied up and rub against your ankles.
I wish I was a feline-man!
12:57 AM, March 08, 2006
Poof! You are a feline-man AKA pussy! Boo! Now you run away! Ha ha ha!
I wish I was truly happy
11:02 AM, March 08, 2006
You are truly happy. The corners of your mouth curl permanently upward and a calm, quiet happiness settles like a fine mist over you. There is no need for intellectual input, you find simple pleasures in your surroundings... flowers, topographical shapes, clouds. You leave your home and follow a shiny butterfly to a mountain where you will live out the rest of your happy days. Occasionally you write poetry on the side of the mountain, very Han Shan. There is no need for family, friendships or any relationships at all as you are a contented being.
I wish I would stop surfing the web and stumbling across random sites, and get some work done...
11:39 AM, March 08, 2006
Your wish is granted. KBLAM and explosion rocks the world as the Y2K bug finally makes itself evident completely decimating computers and networks all over the world. After a day of uncontrollable sobbing you realize you didn't need your computer to do your work as now the best jobs are now labor jobs. The information age has ended. People focus on what is happening close to them and have no interest in anything not immediate to their lives. Actual communities take the place of internet communities but...
You rediscover books and instead of plowing the south forty with the latest stock of soybeans you find yourself engrossed in War and Peace for the fifteenth time finding things you didn't notice the first time. And the world leaves you behind.
I wish the end of the world would stop fucking around and come already.
1:48 PM, March 09, 2006
The end of the world arives leaving nothing but an incomprehensable nothing surrouding one tiny untouched innescapable island. Did I mention this was just the end of Walt Disney World? Oh, and that little corner left untouched? It's a small world. Now, Poor Infinity, there truly is no escape.
I wish that Loki and I were the most powerful super hero team imaginable
3:57 PM, March 09, 2006
You and Loki are the most powerful super hero team imaginable. Unfortunately, Elias' wish has infected the world and it is, in fact, the end of it.
People are confused.
You, SOL y Loki, are as powerful as we can imagine. You are like gods, but God made the world and has brought about the end of it.
I can imagine you are powerful enough to stop the end of the world, but that means you must defeat God.
It's quite the conundrum.
Being a God-fearing person (or at least God-acknowledging) you don't even know where to start. You don't even wanna try because, WTF!, God's gonna be pissed if try to beat 'im and can't.
But ... if you try to beat 'im and do ... you're golden, people love you ; you are God.
Do you wanna be God? Kinda cool. Kinda sucks. I think Jim Carey adaquately illustratedthat dillemma, I'm don't think it's necessary to go into that here. The point is ...
You're sitting home, drinking less (because tomorrow it's going to be last night), trying to decide how to play this one.
God, not about to be played like a bitch, sends an angel (he calls them "hitmen") to your house to slay you.
You are slain. It's very sad.
Loki is pissed so he saves half the world (the half he's entitled to by being half of the most powerful superhero team imaginable).
God splits down the middle, his left half disappears and he falls to the floor like a flounder with one eye. He lies there for a moment until he realizes he's God and makes himself whole again.
But he's shorter, only half as tall as he was. And now he's gotta han g out with Loki, and Loki eats all God's bacon, but God can't say shit because Loki is God, too. Even God can't fuck with God.
I wish Jim was holding a gold dubloon when that man asked what was that he was holding.
4:27 AM, March 10, 2006
Zip-a-dee-ay. When that man comes down the street, and asks about the contents of Jim's hand, Jim says, “Gold dubloon.”
Then a pirate ship falls out of the sky and lands on his head.
Ah-hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhhhh!!!!!
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHH!!!!!!
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!
I wish squirrels could shout in human voices and when you shouted at them, they shouted witty things back, and on your birthday, they would shout truthful compliments when you were walking to your car.
6:45 PM, March 10, 2006
You, sir, have no idea what you are wishing for! You are wishing for the devil to burrow his way up from hell and infect squirrels everywhere with is powerful-evil, evil energy. Witty squirrels are hell spawn, haven't you read your bible!
Jesus Christ protect us from the folly that is this mans wish!
I hope, sir, that it's your birthday and you are currently walking to your car ... pretend I'm a devil-squirrel ...
"Your capacity for evil in ignorance is astounding! LONG LIVE THE DEVIL SQUIRREL!!!!!"
10:56 AM, March 12, 2006
oh, and I suppose that I wish my lord and savior Jesus Christ would come back to strike down all the evil in this world.
11:03 AM, March 12, 2006
DISREGARD THE LAST WISH!!!!
Stepping in as thread moderator here. Klipper, Pat Robertson, there are two simple rules for this thread. First you grant and corrupt the previous wish. Their wish must come true, you can't just say, "you don't know what you're wishing for" or whatever. THe second rule is you then wish yourself.
Now, Klipper, please corrupt Matt's wish like a nice genie.
SOL
7:36 PM, March 12, 2006
You are walking to your car on a beautiful morning when, out of no where, a squirrel calmly says to you, "Your capacity for evil in ignorance is astounding! LONG LIVE THE DEVIL SQUIRREL!!!!!"
"What?!" you say, but the squirrel bursts into flames. Squirrels everywhere burst into flames, setting trees and houses on fire and scaring children.
The squirrels that don't catch fire, shoot fire from their eyes at everything they see. Your friends and neighbors are all on fire, every tree and car and mailbox is on fire. You have unleashed hell on earth.
Pat Robertson was right.
I wish Pat's lord and savior Jesus Christ would come back to strike down all the evil in this world.
9:08 PM, March 12, 2006
Jesus comes back to smite all the evil. He's totally going to get right on that, but first he gets a black berry. It sucks up all his time, he forgets about the smiting evil thing, though that is why he came back, he just never gets around to it.
I wish for emotional clarity.
10:16 PM, March 12, 2006
You get emotional clarity and your head explodes.
I wish the site moderator didn't rule with an iron fist and allowed a little creativity. Geez, it's like 1984 in here.
1:02 AM, March 13, 2006
Your wish is granted, I no longer rule with an iron fist. Whop! Did you feel that, I just smacked you with my titanium beaver.
I wish Klipper wasn't such a whiner.
3:25 AM, March 13, 2006
Granted. Klipper is no longer such a whiner.
Klipper is now such a... shiner!
That's right, a big blackish, bluish, yellowish bruise around one of your eyes, the tell-tale sign of the traffic of someone else's unhappy fist.
He does not go away. You are permanently black-eyed. You have to wear make-up. Around that eye. It looks silly. You have to wear make-up on your whole face.
Meanwhile, Jeremy's transformation has left behind a bewildered group of friends and a pregnant wife. All of whom wonder why you keep flicking yourself in the eye and saying, "Stop whining! I do not like to be spanked!"
I wish I had my very own Tardis.
12:25 PM, March 25, 2006
You do, but its a really crappy tardis.
I wish I knew what a tardis is.
7:43 AM, March 27, 2006
http://www.bbc.co.uk/doctorwho/classic/tardiscam/intro.shtml
I guess that means your Tardis will put you in ackward places at ackward times, causing you to experience never-ending pain in the ass situations.
I wish I had a non-defective Tardis.
2:26 PM, March 27, 2006
You have a completely fective tardis. Unfortunately you threw out the manual. This leads to more than a little high-jinx and a threatened law suit from the creators of The Greatest American Hero.
I wish that I could continue my current jobs with the same hours but be paid 400 times more and be rewarded with concubines (that are hot girls, not klipper in his tie-died moomoo or Matt and Elias as some sort of horrifying conjoined concubastard).
10:41 PM, March 27, 2006
Whiz-bang! Your income quadra-hundred-ouples! Unfortunately, it does so in a flagging attempt to keep up with inflation, which octo-hundred-ouples!
To keep you motivated, yes, you are rewarded with hot concubines. They are your carrot on a stick. Unfortunately, they are also presented to you in the same way as a carrot on a stick. Whenever you work at your job(s) you must wear an unwieldy harness with a long appendage stretching over your head in front of you, from which dangles a luscious hottie, tantalizingly out of reach.
You get one other concubine, but she has to carry your vast salary in a wheelbarrow, rendering her otherwise unavailable, as well as tired and perpetually a little cranky.
I wish I was always grown-up, and mensch-y.
7:27 PM, March 28, 2006
Turns out you were always grown up and mensch-y til just now. When you stoped and thought about it you get thwacked with the goofy brat branch. For the rest of your days you will whine about how much you want a lolly, of course,there wont be that many as in 8 weeks everyone will be so sick of your whine that yuo get your wish in the form of oversized novelty lollys which you are unceremoniously pummeled with. On the brite side your funeral is well attended and a rather tasteful and moving affair.
I wish that my concu-sling had a design flaw that allows me to unharness myself and take my hottie bragade as dates to Matt's funeral.
11:57 PM, March 29, 2006
You get your wish. With a "sproi-oi-oi-nnnng" of loosed metal and leather, your harness snaps open and you and your harem traipse happily to my heart-warming eulogy...
...Only to discover that all your concubines are necrophiles. They strain to maintain a polite interest in you for as long as they can, until their deeply ingrained lusts overtake them, and they rush the altar to leap on my sticky corpse -- (it turns out that, while blood alone is difficult enough to clean, blood mixed with lolly-smack is virtually impossible to completely remove, and my remains, despite the best efforts of several professionals, are gooey.)
Pushed to the brink by long hard hours of with comparably little pay, only made worse by the back-breaking burden of lugging tight-bodied sex slaves, you cry out, quotably, "A man defines his own destiny!" And leap into writhing, moaning pile over my coffin.
Needless to say, after several hours of earnest effort to separate elbow from ankle from God-knows-what, in a somewhat half-assed decision, the whole lot is buried alive. (Except me, of course, being already dead.)
So there you are, left with plenty of time alone, in intimate surroundings with your hard-earned lady friends. It's really not all that bad, until you are reminded that even sex becomes monotonous, and you realize that you have nothing good to read, and no light by which to read it.
So you and your troop of sultry job incentives tell each other every story you can think of, until you run out of them, and, bored to tears, finally suffocate.
Meanwhile, the plot of land which includes the secluded spot where I requested in my will to be buried is converted to a dog park, my headstone is overturned, and with no indication that said spot is in fact a grave, lots of dogs come and piss on it.
I wish for deep, renewable love in my heart.
1:03 AM, March 30, 2006
Deep in your heart there is a flicker which quickly builds to a flame and then an inferno of love. Love of stamp collecting.
You can't get enough of stamps, every inch of your home, your car even your body is quickly covered in stamps, but that's not enough, you matress is replaced with stacks and stacks of stamp books. When you write a letter, you write it on stams, fold them, make an envelope out of stamps, put a stamp on it, then mail it.
THis would be fine, wierd, but fine, until all the glue you've been licking and wearing enters your pours and you die (again).
I wish Matt becomes the Kenny of the corrupt the wish thread.
10:43 AM, April 02, 2006
Granted, Matt becomes the "Kenny" of the Corrupt the Wish thread.
Unfortunately, though, he becomes the Kenny Loggins of the Corrupt the Wish thread.
Matt's increasingly numerous posts include such tangy lines as:
Can you see the little ponies
Dance before your eyes
All the pretty little ponies
Will be there when you arise
...and...
Jack, get Mack, come on before we crack
Lose your blues, everybody cut footloose...
...which only barely makes any semantic sense.
He also keeps trying to sell everyone copies of his album "Return to Pooh Corner" and prattling on about his beloved daughter. Until every IRF blogger goes insane.
Once insane, they unite, run over to your house and fill it with ketchup.
I wish for clean air and happy, interesting people to talk to.
12:22 PM, April 02, 2006
You've got clean air! Oh, and look! See those people over there? That guy with the parrot and the jet pack and the time machine hanging out with Marcel Marceau, Stephen Hawking, Ponce DeLeon, Jessica Simpson, Henry Winkler, Gallagher and Sir Paul McCartney? What a broad smile on his face! He must be happy! Interesting life like that, why wouldn't he be happy? Oh, and hey! He's coming this way! Maybe I (Meaning Matt) will ask him why he's so happy!
"Why are you so happy, interesting happy man?"
"I get happy when I get to deprive you of clean air!" He said before farting in your face then grabbing you by the neck and giving you a gool Ol' fashion throttlin!
Now you've got an interesting happy person to talk to and plenty of clean air, just can't breath it since there are hands on your throat.
I wish I had the same super powers as Submariner (As opposed to only Aquaman).
10:21 PM, April 03, 2006
Okay, if you say so. But it seems to me like this wish pretty much corrupts itself.
According to Wikipedia, the powers of the Sub-Mariner are that he can fly, shoot out bursts of electricity (which, it is noted, he usually does offensively), and lift really heavy things. Also, he can breathe underwater and he has little wings on his feet which, originally believed to be his means of aerial propulsion, are now thought to be for steering.
Great. First off, you can't wear socks. They drive you crazy and chafe those little wings on your feet. So you have to wear flip-flops. But there goes the flying, because the flip-flops keep falling off and everytime you fly somewhere you arrive barefoot, and unless it's a private residence people don't let you in. So you still pretty much have to walk and/or drive everywhere, or be prepared to buy a new pair of flip-flops once you get there.
And, of course you still need a job. And a good one, because you're buying lots of flip-flops. So what are you gonna do? You can lift heavy stuff, but so can a crane. Besides, do you really want a full-time job just lifting stuff all day long? It's boring as hell.
What else. You can sell rides. But then you keep losing your flip-flops.
Or, you can shoot out bolts of electricity that offend everybody. Wow, great. Stat doing that, and all kinds of assholes will never leave you alone.
Plus, your super-powers diminish when you spend too much time away from water. So pretty much you have to be near water all the time. Who's gonna hang out with you? "Excuse me, my dear, I'm having a lovely time, but do you think we could continue this somewhere where I could stand in a creek?"
People who hang out with you get tired of being bitten by mosquitoes, etc., and pretty much leave you alone.
So then what? You have to retire to the ocean. And guess what? There's nobody to talk to. You spend your life in anti-social agony, dodging the torpedoes of various navies when you tap on the hulls of their ships trying to make friends. Or trying to make conversation by yelling through the little windows of those Jacques Cousteau subs from inside which small teams of marine biologists gawk stupidly at you and say, "What? What? I can't hear you, the glass is way too thick."
I wish i would write some really great short stories and novels.
8:49 PM, April 07, 2006
VVVVVVVVVVVWWWWWWWWEEEWWWWWW!
That is the sound of the flying saucer landing. Out jumps a 3 foot tall pug nosed pissed off space alien. "All right, lousy human, I'm here to grant you one freakin wish!"
"Yippee!" You exclaim then you wish, "I wish i would write some really great short stories and novels!"
"You wish what?!?!???" replies the alien. "What?!?!??? That is the stupidist wish I've been forced to grant in 7 billion years of wish granting. I've granted better wishes to Tylathian Blast Slugs! You wish to write 'Some really Great short stories and novels?' The why haven't you?"
"All right," said the space alien pulling out a decombobulation pistol, some chalk and a blakboard rougly a mile high and strething to Delaware, "Get righting, inch high letters again and again, you are going to write, 'Some really great short stories and novels' I figure it'll take you about 17 billion times to fill this blackboard, so git going!" he shouts spittle flying as he jams his pistol into your ribs.
"Umm, that's not what I muh.." you try to interject before getting pistol whipped to the top of the head in a move that causes Klipper to exclaim, "Social!" and tilt back a bottle of burbon.
"Seriously, I meant..." *POP* to the top of the head and again Klipper takes a slug.
You write and write and write until both hands fall off and you are forced to begin writing with the chalk clenched tightly betwixt your buttox. You are never able to convince your alien tormentor that he misheard you, but each frequent attempt draws another sharp blow to the noggin and eventually leads to you developing a skullular soft spot and irreperable liver damage for Klipper who inexplicablycontinues to pound booze with every smack.
I wish for abs of steele.
6:19 PM, April 09, 2006
You get 'em. Whoop-de-doo. The abs of Steele. Remington Steele.
Yessiree, the abs of that beloved fictional character from that slick 80s TV show.
Wasn't he doubly fictional? The fictional character himself a mystery, some sort of fiction, in the show?
Well that's what you get. His abs.
Your flanks are now flanked with fictional abs.
You stroll around unshirted all the time, grinning, saying, "Check out my hot fictional abs." You flex them and beam, never entirely sure why this provokes the looks that it does.
Why the looks? How can one get fictional abs in the first place?
Well, of course because those abs were really the subset of what you actually got, which was acute schizoaffective disorder. That's right. Your fictional abs arrived to you through the howling mad venue of your own imagination gone into hyperdrive.
Next week, you are running down the street yelling, "Don't fuck with me, I'm Baretta!" And shortly thereafter, you sit on your porch for days, reading The Sun aloud in a sober monitone, because you are Walter Kronkite.
On the one day you think you are Maguyver, you barely escape arrest when you try to save an "endangered" school bus full of children with a bunch of PVC pipe and a cabbage.
The next day, you think you are a dog whistle.
Uh, etc.
I wish I was just a little more organized and motivated.
1:31 AM, April 11, 2006
And I wish someone would corrupt my wish.
12:03 AM, April 19, 2006
Yeah, me too!
12:12 AM, April 20, 2006
Me three!
12:13 AM, April 20, 2006
Wow, you posted just a minute after I did. Are you online at the same time I am?
12:14 AM, April 20, 2006
Yes.
12:14 AM, April 20, 2006
Let's go talk on iChat.
12:15 AM, April 20, 2006
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