Discussion in 'Can I Play with Madness?' started by Powerslave911, Aug 10, 2010.
Good reply, if anatomically inaccurate.
Hey, we don't know what Trent put in that cake to make you melt away
They can speak perfectly, but you can only bark.
I wish I had Adrian Smith's green Jackson from the BOS tour.
Forget about Lynch. Contact Neil Gaiman.
I've never read Gaiman, but he keeps coming up in recommendations.... guess I should check him out. Not gonna lie, this felt good, had been a while since I killed a dream lol.
Because the Universe is far away and everyone is pleading for bigger penises and boobs, it mishears your straightforward request. Instead of getting Adrian Smith's, the guitarist, "green jackson," from the BOS tour, you get Adrian Smith's, the model, green jacket he sported for the launch of the new BOSS fragrance: Overcompensation, for Men.
I wish I had A/C to deal with this heat! BLAAARRRGGGHHH
You get an aircon unit capable of chilling your house to the temperature of an industrial-grade refrigerator. However, its voracious energy consumption causes your power bill to increase tenfold, sending you broke and eventually forcing you to live on the street, wherin you turn the colour of a well-cooked lobster under the relentless sun.
I wish I had an Aston Martin
You get your Aston Martin, but you're transported into and forced to play out Goldfinger for the rest of your life. In VHS form.
I wish I had a self driving car.
You get your self driving car, but just as you get used to it and start to feel safe inside, even doze off from time to time, the driving system malfunctions by accidentaly downloading the map of Livermore Falls, ME, instead, driving you into a filling station and when the crash wakes you up the car is already impossible to escape and all you can do is just to watch the flames spread and smell the burning hair and plastics as you slowly overheat and your brain turns off.
I wish I could speak Irish.
You can, but you forget all knowledge of languages, so without knowing any words all you can do is make weird Irish grunts and hisses and other strange stuff like that. This ends up annoying the people around you, and thus they decide to send you packing. To an asylum, to be specific, where you wait out your final days eating rotten food, reading stupid magazines about how to clip your toenails and 37 other dumbass things no one wants to read, and throwing oddly shaped balls against the wall. Ya poor al' coot.
I wish my throat would never hurt again.
Your throat ceases to hurt, but only because aliens have removed it in order to replace the damaged throat of their leader. They've provided you with a sophisticated artificial replacement that works well, for a time. It begins to randomly malfunction, causing you to be briefly unable to breath. This eventually drives you to madness and you invade the alien planet, where you wipe out their entire civilization. After this is over, you realize they would have gladly just replaced the artificial throat because they were a peaceful civilization. The galactic government sentences you to life in space prison for wiping out a planet, and you reside there until the artificial throat fails for the last time....
I wish I could visit the Moon.
So after too many play throughs of Destiny and binging on Futurama, you decide that old axiom of, "It's never too late to follow your dreams," couldn't be more appropriate. You quit your lucrative lion tamer job, tell your fiancee to bugger of and buy several Space for Dummies books with their companion text, So You Decided to Quit Your Lion Tamer Job and Tell Your Fiancee to Bugger Off and Become an Astronaut, and your quest begins, or as Destiny would say... "Adventure."
After reading one and a half of the books you purchased you feel qualified to give NASA a call to be recruited. NASA doesn't give a shit that you have ZERO qualifications and recruit you anyway. "Hell we're sending people on a suicide mission to Mars, OF COURSE we'll send an idiot, er, a volunteer to the Moon!" You see, after their cancellation of the shuttle program and dwindling manned missions, they are what can be only described as desperate.
After a 20 minute pep-talk (can't seriously expect to call it "a training"), they suit you up and strap you to a rocket. "Is this safe?" You ask rightly concerned. "Dude, you know what's been to space? A Russian dog, a... RUSSIAN dog, if it could go up there so can you." That calms you down a little bit. As the countdown begins you begin to wonder what it would be like to see the Sea of Tranquility and the one of Serenity. That hole in the ground named after Copernicus and the frigid north named after Aristotle. Will it have a wall to keep the zombie dragon out? Will you be able to find the spacecraft where Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong hugged each other for warmth and ate the third guy no one ever remembers, not even his mother, cause she's dead, and so is he. Will Willzyx and Tom Cruise still be laying there?
So many questions and no answers, because as you were lost in reverie the rocket took off and since they strapped you on the outside of the rocket as soon as you broke into space a tiny rock the size of a marble traveling thousands of miles per hour hits your face-shield with the most subtle *tink.* That takes you out of your dream state as you watch it crack like an eggshell and shatter. I wish I could tell you your death was quick, but honestly, no one knows how one dies in space except that one guy that was eaten by Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong, but he technically did not die in the vacuum of space. So I theorize it was slow, agonizing and painful, because I am dead inside and your miserable death is only a reflection of my tainted soul. No Moon for you.
I wish my students weren't such dimwits
Separate names with a comma.