j_sum1 and Satisfyng Andy Licious are under the sea in an octopus’s garn, all right. They even remembered to wear scuba ger, so they’re not drowning. Indeed, they’re flippering around quite contentedly, admiring the kelp stalks, when a Yellow Submarine™ comes zooming through and tears off their breathing gear, mangling it irretrievably in the process. Glug, glug!
Oh, sure, I know you could see it coming. Too bad they couldn’t.
I wish the non-native-born-American cook at my mom’s assisted living hadn’t added diced green and red peppers to the stuffing, in a misguided effort to make it look festive. What an odd taste it had!
So the cook uses whole green and red peppers instead, along with some brown and violet ones as well. Nearly everyone chokes trying to down these monstrosities, and you are banned from the assisted living center forever. You are forced to visit your mom surreptiously during the wee hours via a rose trellis.
I wish I could get that thing I wanted for Christmas.
You can get that thing you wanted for Christmas. But it isn’t Christmas yet. You’ll have to wait to find out whether you do or not. <nasty holiday laugh>
I wish… I wish… I wish I had a fish. (Cooked to perfection, of course.)
Your sister get her trailer paid off…via an intricate drug syndicate ring that she heads. The DEA seems to have gotten wind of her exploits and riddles the trailer with bullets. It’s now in the custody of drug law enforcement as evidence. You can now visit your sister with little more than a thick pane of glass between you.
<off>
That’s an interesting extraterritorial application of the DEA, Horseflesh, since my sister’s trailer is not in the USA… well, if the MPAA can get the Norwegian police to lean on Jon Johansen, it’s not that farfetched. Especially after the Arar case.
</off>
Horseflesh Phfffffvvt Barry now boast the most bodacious boil on his bum. Unfortunately, due to that fun party game at his birthday party, you now sport one of your own!
Bippy] bing the threads now exist in the most perfect symmetry you could immagine. However you realize that you set your expectations far too high for the resulting jocularity, which plummets you into a dark chasm of depression, and you can’t stop pondering the word ‘testicles’, no matter how hard you try.
ReBusEniGma. Prepare yourself. You might not like this: You wake up tomorrow morning and discover that the song you wrote several years ago (“My Festering Flesh Wound”) had gotten into the hands of Meatloaf (who claims he wrote it himself) and is now, somehow, a hit. After only the briefest of moments at the top, it plummets back to a more realistic position: just barely making the “top 1,000,000 songs of the year.” At first, you will try to convince people of the actual author, but when the song becomes best-known for its nomination for worst lyrics ever written, Meatloaf decides to get even with you for ruining his life. He leaves his music career to pursue stalking you. Sorry.
I wish it would either snow, or not snow here, rather than just do that thing where 8 actual flakes come down here and there all day, but nothing ever materializes, so you can’t do any fun snow-type activities, but you are also stuck with temperatures too cold to do anything else useful.
RotorHead, the weather makes up its mind and snows. And snows. And snows until the drifts are 20 feet high and people are being rescued from second-story windows via helicopter. You want to do tons of snow-type fun activities, but the exhaust outlet for your heating system is buried under the snow and you asphyxiate from carbon monoxide buildup.
I wish I could take a nap instead of having to work this afternoon.
Eddy, the great and powerful wish-fairy has heard your request. That is a tough one. Couldn’t you have asked for something simple like world peace? But I’ll see what I can do. searching the magic potion list YES! I got it. Oops. Sorry. Used too much. Now you are consigned to a most pitiful state of existence: It seems that all you can do is nap. This is not making the boss any happier. Your little stunt last week with his toupee and that tube of Preparation-H nearly pushed him over the edge, but now you have really done it. Sleeping on the job. You would be most upset to learn of being fired, if only they could wake you. They decide to stuff your comatose carcass into the spare closet for now.
I wish I had been in the helicopter performing the rescues, rather than at home asphyxiating.
RotorHead, the heroic chopper pilot, wins praise and acclaim for his daring and skill in rescuing dozens of people stranded by the most vicious winter ever to hit the Eastern Seaboard in living memory.
Too bad the accolades go to his head, and he becomes so full of himself that he refuses to bow his head to anyone. Which proves to be a gruesome mistake when he goes to enter a small chopper idling on the ground, and ignores a nearby mechanic’s cries of “Bow your head! Bow your head, dammit!!!”
I wish there won’t be any frost heaves where I ride thiswinter.
burrrrrralph
There won’t be any frost heaving where you ride this winter because you’ve been sent to Hell (directly to hell, without passing purgatory and collecting $200).
[that for making me do the dirty deed with Ann Coulter!]
I wish Mrs. Adams would let Cecil come out and play.
Cecil is so beloved though, that all his little friends follow him. Including his beloved hamsters (who had evicted their mole usurpers some time earlier).
The SDMB grinds to a halt. The Corrupt Wish Granting Procedure is interrupted. Cecil and Slug aren’t fazed by this at all; they both push ahead with their equivalents of Underwood typewriters and india-ink drawing pens. But all the SDMB regulars who use the electronic services of the SDMB are stranded in mid-post.
Your grimace turns to grin as the sun blasts away the gloomy mists that have beset your present evironment!!! The temperature soars to 85 degrees and the sun blasts it’s warmth right into the very fibres of your soul.
“Exxxxccccellent”, You think!!! Quickly you change into your swimmers, slip on your sandals and grab your sun lotion and a large rubber duck as you dash out the door towards the closest public swimm— a cold, moist fog suddenly rolls in…a grue is nearby.
I wish Meatloaf would get a life and leave me alone.
Heart broken by your rejection, Meatloaf throws himself of a bridge. When his fans hear about what you did they decide to camp outside your house and sing Bat out of Hell day and night until you go mad. Two days later you are dragged from your home wearing a straight jacket by the men in white coats.
Bippy becomes a grue. Alas, it doesn’t become him. The grue tries desperately to escape being Bippy, who refuses to give up his newfound identitiy. The internal warfare ends in Bippy breaking out suddenly in beard hair – all over his contorted body. He ends his days as a freak in a sideshow, where little kids throw rotten eggs at him when the barker isn’t looking. This is okay with the grue, who by that time has settled down among the comfy beard hairs and eats the eggs as they’re thrown, then breathes their halitosis upon its hapless host.
Oh, and I wish that I had the time to search back in this thread and see if it really was me, not someone else, who put BJMoose in a compromising position with Ann Coulter.
