Meredith Haggerty bought a lamp off Etsy and discovered an evil genie. She wished to have a column in a prestigious blog, and the genie gave her this.
After you read this week’s wishes, make a wish in the comments below. Then read the evil genie’s last installment.
beachplease wishes: I wish to be on vacation forever!
Evil Genie replies:
What You Learned on Your Permanent Vacation or, A Supposedly Fun Thing You’ll Do Forever
Vacation, all you’ve ever wanted, vacation time to get away and never come back. On the first leg of your never-ending, international tour, your Alaska-bound cruise ship sinks off the coast of Noplace, Canada. How topical! You wish you’d started in Italy, but instead you bob for hours in the icy waters, watching your fellow passengers be eaten by oversized Canuck fish. Somehow, you survive, but the trauma is overwhelming and crippling. You think about going home, but, not wanting to waste your wish, travel on.
Vacations, you now realize, are not as comforting as you might think. You are pickpocketed in the streets of Paris, swindled in the outdoor markets of Cairo, trampled in China, food-poisoned in India. You lose your luggage in Toronto, get a sunburn in Kenya, contract malaria in Peru. You are stranded in Berlin, arrested in Milan, caned in Thailand, detained in Iran, develop frostbite in Winnipeg, sleep in a hotel full of bedbugs in New York, and fall in a canal after smoking bad hash in Amsterdam. A translation error puts you on stage during a donkey show in Tijuana. You order bad room service in Toyko. You run into your ex — looking radiant — with a brand-new spouse on their Hawaiian honeymoon. You are not, however, sold into slavery… because that’s a job.
After a time, as strenuous as your travels have been, you start to suffer from relaxation fatigue — you feel useless and brain-dead. No one takes you seriously and your relationships are nothing more than flings. You want to be productive and creative and you’re tired of being catered to. You try to leave Hawaii, but discover that your funds are low. To make up the difference, you attempt to get a job on the island — working at the hotel, selling bottled water on the beach, hawking tiki torches in a tourist shop — but no one seems to respond to your résumé. You realize now that employment is out of the wishing question.
Destitute, you give stealing and gambling a shot, but those cashgrabs result in two broken legs and new wheelchair. You resign yourself to lottery tickets as a source of income. The Powerball odds are too long, so you stick to scratcher tickets, earning just enough to buy more scratcher tickets. One gusty day, the wind blows the tiny silver shards into your tired eyes, blinding you. Wheelchair bound and sight-challenged, you rely on the kindness of strangers to read your tickets. You befriend a young runaway, and he becomes your constant companion.
A long run of bad luck ensues. When you are down to your very last dollar you know that you have come to a fork in the road, and one of the paths isn’t very long at all. With your companion, you wheel down to your favorite spot on the beach. “If this ticket isn’t a winner… I just don’t think my heart can take it,” you tell your friend, with tears in your sightless eyes. Slowly, with your last shred of hope, you use your lucky penny to remove the metallic coating. The runaway puts his hand on your shoulder, shaking, and informs you that this one, sadly, was another loser. You sit back in your chair and, with surprisingly little effort, will your heart to stop. Your companion carefully removes the winning ticket from your fingers, off to collect his fortune.
As your body decomposes on the beach, two businessmen on a corporate retreat pass you by. They have just landed in Kauai, and haven’t changed out of their suits. Their trip is a week long, but this might the only time they get to see the ocean. They spot you lying in the white sand, facing the bright blue water, literally dead to the world. “Nice work if you can get it,” Gary says to Michael, laughing, as they turn back towards the hotel conference room to attend a seminar about equity.
SoYouThinkYouCanadance wishes: Evil Genie, I wish for breasts that can tell time!
Evil Genie replies:
Everyone loves your new boobies. They are fashionable and functional. Sure, there are some small issues — they never quite sync up, of course, always running two or three minutes apart. The analog clock, with its gears and grinds, is substantially larger and heavier than the digital, and this means you have to buy all-new, lopsided bras. Neither snooze button works, the clocks tend to reset when you roll onto your front, the analog doesn’t know AM from PM, teenage boys are constantly asking you for the time, your back is killing you. And the worst problem, of course, is that your breasts tell the time. Out loud. Of course they do. But still, you have something even Lady Gaga doesn’t have, and you know how to work it. Yay, you got your wish!
Your downfall comes when you are driving down the California coast, during a routine traffic stop. Some women — at least in situational comedies and the openings of pornographic films — use their breasts to get out of speeding tickets, but as the officer walks up next the driver-side door and asks you roll down your window, you are trying furiously to silence yours. “License and registration,” she says behind her mirrored glasses. “10:51!” announce your tits.
“Excuse me?” asks the officer. “I’m sorry, my breasts tell the—” you begin to explain. “Are you drunk?” the officer asks. “10:51 is radio code for drunk. Please step out of the car, ma’am.” You exit your vehicle just in time for your chest to say, “10:52!” “Who needs to be resuscitated?” she demands. “What?” you spit, baffled. She forces you down on the ground, cuffs you and begins to search your car for a dying man. “10:53!” “Where is he? Is that a threat?” She pops open your trunk and rips at the inside of the car. “10:54!” “I knew it,” the police officer says, “You’re coming with me.”
Your talking ta-tas are no more popular in the holding cell, where you receive daily beatings. When a body is discovered near the highway where you were pulled over, and the detectives discover a clock face drawn on its face face, the jury doesn’t even deliberate before sentencing you to life in the hole — just you and your breasts counting every minute until eternity.
Wishingandhoping wishes: Evil Genie, I want the best sex ever.
Evil Genie replies:
After the most intense, mind-erasing, knee-buckling, body-blissed, higher-power-invoking orgasm of your life, you roll off your lover and gaze down upon… it. “Was it worth it?” you wonder, looking down at the sexy, rotting pile of dead puppies. You’re still a little aroused, but, at the very base of your skull, disgust is starting to make itself known. You never would have thought that you were into bestiality, or pedophilia, or necrophilia — and individually, you’re not. It’s the unimaginable combination of all three that really gets your disgusting rocks off. You didn’t even imagine you were all that into group sex! But it turns out that for you only an entire pile of three-day-old baby dog corpses can bring you to the brink of ecstasy and then, earth-shatteringly, push you over. And now you have to live with that knowledge.
In the days and weeks that follow, your thoughts are haunted by the memory of the puppile. Soon after the last aftershocks of desire have rocked your body, you fall into a deep depression. Your self-hatred has the force of a thousand steam-engines, and you can’t begin to think straight. You stop leaving your house during the day because you cannot show your face — once eyebrow deep in decomposed dog privates — to the rest of the world. At night, you prowl the streets, desperate to find anything reasonable, any woman, any man, any legal outlet that can erase the little bowsers from your mind. You are indiscriminate and passionless in your journey; you seduce lonely housewives and freshly released convicts, you encounter old prostitutes and the young, drugged up homeless. You are empty and broken and far from successful, at least in terms of forgetting the pleasure you once knew.
Months later, you notice a greenness on your genitalia, but you are too self-loathing to visit a doctor. The greenness spreads, up your belly and down your legs, enveloping your calves and spindling up your neck. Only when you collapse in public are you rushed to the emergency room, where you are quickly quarantined. Your body has created a super-virus — a mix of necrotitis, syphilis and heartworm — that resists medication and is starting to spread through eye contact alone. Through the ICU window you recognize a handful of people you had met under the cover of night, all looking scared and alone; a greenish rash coloring their features. With horror, you see what you have created. As you feel your heart slow, the disease choking it, squeezing it, stopping it, you hear the worried doctor, whisper, “It’s spreading.” Just before you let your head fall back in the sweet recumbency of death, you see the hospital door swing open, a lime-ish, olive-ish arm push through, and then the Wicked-Witch-of-the-West-green face of your dear, sweet mother.