P.S.
I wish I had a sword that could cut through anything.

Granted.

It's so heavy, it's impossible to lift by any hands.

I wish I hada moustache.

Wish Granted

You now wake up the next day with a moustache. But loe and behold it is the moustache from that The Tick episode where the moustache was able to take over the Tick and make him do what "it" wants. You are forced to rob banks, cause pain and destruction, and have to watch those hour long soap operas that always end with, "I am pregnant with your mothers brothers daughter!"*dum-dum-dummmmmm*

I wish I could type correctly without looking at the keyboard.

Wish granted

You now can read the keys with super sensitive touch. You can even read newspapers!
Downside is the rest of your body's pain receptors are really amped up. You would kill youself, but the knife is wood-handled and hurts too much to hold
You pick up a cat and it feels like some handed you an 8 pound bag of exacto blades and pins. When you reflexively squeeze the cat, he claws you. The pain overloads you and you are knocked into a coma.
In your mind in the coma all of your problems are solved, you type merrily away looking over your shoulder at your perfect children in your perfect house with your perfect spouse. You imagine yourself driving your perfect car later after you finish with the latest chapter of your third novel. You know this one will outsell Lord of the Rings and the Bible combined just like the first two
As the bedsores spread across your body and your muscles waste away, your loved ones, in vigil at your bedside, comment that it almost looks like you are smiling
There, a happy ending!

I wish I had a writer's discipline. I have several novels in me that would outsell even coma-boys stuff!

Oh, the sword that can cut through anything?

You put it down and it slices through the table, floor, and ends up at the core of the earth (after ginsuing back and forth until momentum ran out)

Wish Granted

You are now writing at such a speed and conviction that even Stephen King and Anne Rice look at you and say "Is that boy on crack?"

You write and write and write, feeling the life of your story pour out of you. The conviction you have towards making this story a story you can share with the world makes you edit and re-edit the story until it reads the way you see it in your mind. You write through a large number of pencils, over thousands and thousands of notebooks. You continue to write until you realize you have not left the house in 20 years. You step outside and realize the story you made was just published by coma-boy's family as they found it in one of his cupboards after his passing; they also made it into a feature length film which spawned numerous sequels which all won Oscars.

You run back into your home, burn all of your manuscripts and scream:

"BEAVER DAM YOU COMA-BOY!!!!!!!!!!!"

I wish that my luggage was already packed for my trip to Barrie.

Granted.

But it doesn't pack enough undapants or a toothbrush. You get gingivitus and you smell.

I wish I was a talking monkey.

Granted. Unfortunately you only speak a language that incredibly unattractive platypuses in heat understand.

You will be forced to turn to duck billed love for the rest of your life.


Now, I wish I was very tall.

Granted.

You're tall. Your head goes into space and you freeze and suffocate.

I wish I had a baseball bat.

Granted, you now have a hat made of baseballs.

I wish that pickles weren't so sour.

Wish granted

Unfortunately everyone else loves sour pickles, and now that pickles are no longer sour, the sour pickle industry is forced into bankrupcy because no one wants non sour pickles. With the collapse of the pickle empire, President Bush loses nearly half of his stock, which he had placed in the pickle industry. This causes him to have a heart attack while standing over the infamous red nuclear missle launch button...he falls and hit the button. The world is thrusted into a nuclear winter...

I wish the world was full of cheese.

Wish granted, to world is now ful of French people.

I wish it was Christmas already.

Granted.

It's Christmas Day, 2032. The sudden change in time gives you a heart attack. You die.

I wish I had the precious.

Wish Granted

However pushing the date of Christmas up one extra day puts Santa and his elves far behind schedule. Both the elves and Santa are so frustrated, that they decide to not deliver any presents. With no presents, everyone loses thier Christmas spirit, and Chritians who are only Christians so they can celebreate Christmas suddely convert to entirely new faiths...thus with nearly half of the Christian population gone, Jesus comes down and ushers in the period of tribulation, which brings on the end of days.

I wish that this thread would burn.

Wish Granted

I kill you and take it from you.

I wish I had a monkey.