Dream Killing Game

You do save John Lennon and George Harrison, but then every piece of music they write from thenceforth is as terrible as Ke$ha. They both kill themselves because they can no longer write good songs. In their last wills, John and George admit that all of their writing credits were actually ghostwritten by Paul McCartney, yes, even "Imagine", and thus, all of your saving was in vain.

I was I had not consumed this beer so quickly.
 
You wasn't consumed the beer quickly.
:p

Instead, you take a small sip from the bottle on the hour, every hour, not getting remotely drubl and savouring the taste for a while, until it starts to get warm, flat and crappy. You also have a miserable night out as a result of the lack of drublness, all your friends decide you're really boring and vow never to hang out with you again. The slower than usual consumption of beer also causes a fatal drop in sales at the brewery, and the administrators are called in to liquidate the firm, thus ending the production of this particular brand of beer. This beer collapse sends shockwaves throughout the brewing industry, investors immediately pull their money, and all commercial brewing comes to a halt worldwide, resulting in millions of job losses and global recession.

I wish my internet connection would stop dropping out.
 
You get a better internet connection but everyone else becomes jealous! And it makes you guilty!

I wish I could become a defense aide to Phoenix Wright.
 
Granted. However, whilst your first case is very much in your favour, you are pitted up against the triple A team of Atticus Finch, Alan Shore and Arthur Kirkland who verbally and mentally dismantle Wright and yourself. This leads to an easy case lost, and Wright retires from being a lawyer. You can no longer find anyone willing to take you on as a defence aide, and you are now a laughing stock in the law community.

I wish for the perfect dream.
 
You get the perfect dream you wanted but you quickly get bored of all the perfectness.

I wish I could take the bar exam and try another shot at the job, this time being a defense attorney.
 
You get it. You're in a second-rate video game. Your visage is regularly defeated by characters in the next Tekken installment. People laugh. A lot.

I wish I could move all my friends from home to Ottawa.
 
You do so, but the families you uproot to house your friends grab their hockey sticks, riot and burn down the bars.

I wish I had more basses.
 
You win a lottery and obtain an obscene number of basses. Word of your incredible collection spreads far and wide. Awe and jealousy festers the world over. One especially dark night, a little known order of bass-ninjas assembles, slides under your front door (that was a really small gap) and gathers in the vast storage vault beneath your home. Silently, eyes glittering in anticipation, they plug each and every bass in to your obscenely large collections of amps. After a brief pause, barely an intake of breath is heard, before they launch simultaneously into their three favourite bars of their five favourite bass solos. The resulting shockwave shatters the Earth's crust, and the entire surface of the planet is engulfed in magma. Only one musical instrument survives. A triangle.

I wish I didn't have to go to council meetings.
 
I wish I didn't have to go to council meetings.

A nuclear war starts and wipes out 85% of the world's population. You are excused from the council meeting.

I wish my work was finally done.
 
It is done. However, you come to the grim realisation that there is even more tedious and tiring work ahead of you that absolutely must be completed.

I wish that I was the Wishmaster all the time.
 
It is done. However, you come to the grim realisation that there is even more tedious and tiring work ahead of you that absolutely must be completed.

Sadly, that's the story of my life. -_-
 
I wish that I was the Wishmaster all the time.


You're the Wishmaster and can't wait for some idiot to make three wishes so your hell-bound gang of friends can come hang out with you on earth. you found some twit on an online board making odd wishes like, "I wish I hadn't eaten my sandwich so fast," "I wish it was December already," or "I wish had a lot of basses." You start by the last one sending of hoard of heavy-set, bottom heavy, women to his door since he's all about that bass, no treble. Then you make it quite festive in his home by conjuring a blizzard in his home, covering everything, including the dancing fatties shaking it like their suppose to do, in several feet of snow. As you are about to grant his last wish, Zoroaster appears on the back of Falkor! "What? That fucker isn't real!" You exclaim very annoyed that your fun was interrupted. "Bitch, people didn't believe in my message either thanks to that Jewish bum!" Before you could make sense of that nonsense, Zoroaster says, "Shaazam!" and you are trapped in jewel. Just when you think you'll be ok since some idiot will come across the jewel and wake you they place you in a museum, you live in misery for eternity, because thanks to Wikipedia nobody goes to museums anymore.

I want ice cream!
 
You graduate with top class honours and enter the exciting and wonderful work of work. You get to share a large, modern open-plan office with some delightful people, most of whom have no sense of personal space, extraordinarily loud voices when on the phone, bodily odour, which the broken air conditioning is unable to combat, and halitosis, which leads them to chomp and slurp gum with their mouths open all day in a futile attempt to make their breath smell 'nice'. The boss is a combination of clueless and sociopathic, and the contract is zero-hour, actual hours being set by the employer and non-negotiable.

I wish my flaming internet connection would stop dropping out.
 
Your internet connection stays strong and drop, nary a drop in service. Over many days, however, you notice that the rest of your electronics begin to fail. They no longer can hold a charge or even turn on. Your internet has completely consumed all power in your home and the surrounding block. So your wifi signal is strong, but you can no longer use any wifi enabled devices and you live in the dark like a mole person.

I wish that I succeed at both of my job interviews today!
 
You fail at the first and don't get the job, but at the second one you seem to be doing pretty well until he strangely asks what type of music you are into. You reply with Iron Maiden, and almost immediately the boss pulls out cross and attempts an exorcism. But the strange thing is that it works, you were possessed by a demon almost the whole time. You also don't get the job and for some odd reason cannot stand Iron Maiden anymore.

I wish my coffee didn't taste so awful
 
Your coffee doesn't taste awful, instead it takes on a nice little trip with a trippy background. There's a voice giving you a recap of your life so far and how far you've come. Then you get out of the weirdness and carry on as if nothing ever happened.

I wish I wasn't depressed at times.
 
You trial a new wonder meditation technique and it works! You're never depressed at all, not ever! In fact, in works so well you're trapped in a permanent state of euphoria! It's, like, WOW am I euphoric or what?! In fact, you're SO enthusiastic about this treatment you set out to spread the word and transform the world into a MUCH more upbeat place to live! As a make-or-break trial of the technique (like it was EVER gonna fail, duh!) you test it out the entire Scandinavian black metal scene. They're delighted, of course, and immediately abandon their corpse paint in favour of glitter eye shadow and dayglo lycra to paaaaarrrrtyyyyyyy, swapping their sombre walking around in forests for warehouse raves and magik hippy folkmoots. Spurred on by this AMAZING success, you offer your meditation services to the rest of the music industry. They immediately find they have no further need to pour their sorrows, passions and frustrations into their artistic endeavours, and all quit to go and live on a beach somewhere. All music ceases to exist forthwith.

I wish I didn't feel constantly hungry at work.
 
I wish I didn't feel constantly hungry at work.

Instead of packing your own lunch like a normal person you decided to be "that guy" who starts stealing lunches from the break room. It all starts innocently enough taking Javi's burrito and getting some enjoyment watching him tear up at the sight of his missing nourishment. You secretly laugh to yourself while stuffing you fat thieving face with poor Javi's burrito. Soon it escalates to taking Samantha's Caesar Salads and Bartholomew's home made meatballs. Do you care his wife added her secret ingredient, love? Of course you do! That's why you gunned for it in the first place, not as delicious as the tears of your enemies, but a close second.

It was all fun and misery until you crossed that line, you went too far. You took Trent's ice cream cake for dessert after abolishing Chelsea's Mac 'n' Cheese. Trent is one PTSD trigger away from gunning down the whole office, but thanks to your blatant disregard for other people's food he has decided to make it his mission to hunt you down. And by mission I literally mean mission. This man did two Afghan tours, three in Iraq and then went back to Afghanistan as a tourist just for shits and giggles... yeah... hardcore. Quietly he works in his basement listening to Anthrax as he mixes all sort of biochemicals he, um, "saved up," from his active duty, you know, for emergencies such as these.

The following Monday he walks out of the break room practically yelling, "Oh boy! Can't wait for lunch time as I procured to most scandilicious ice cream cake this side of the solar system!" You, being the thieving moron that you are, take the bait and gun for his cake 15 minutes before break. The timing was perfect, as the rest of the office goes to break you begin to feel a little funny. And by "a little funny," I mean eminent death. Your insides begin to burn and you double over in pain. The rest of the office rushes to you as you scream, "holy donkey dick! MY ASS!" While at first they are concerned it slowly dawns on them you have been stealing their lunches all along and instead give you a quiet, cult-like stare with a matching smile. "PLEASE, help me! MY ASS! MY FUCKING URETHRA! OH MY GODS, THE OLD AND THE NEW! THE BURNING!" No one calls 911 as they are mystified with your obsession in focusing on your ass and penis when your eyes are literally melting off your face... along with your face. Soon after your very entertainig death the janitor mops you up with the same puke sand they use in high schools, Trent is given a raise, a promotion and a medal. This brings back good memories of his days in the service which bolsters his self-esteem and those thoughts of suicide that crept into his dreams before you stole his ice cream cake are gone.

I hope you take solace in the fact you have saved Trent, you thieving bastard... just make your own lunches!

I wish my dogs could talk.
 
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