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.
The Evil Genie grants three wishes a week, so leave a wish in the comments and keep checking to see if it’s answered!
Emily K wishes: Hi Evil Genie. I wish that I was famous on the internet for something really awesome and sexy. Can you help?
Genie replies: Well, by my very nature I can’t really help, but I can certainly make this wish a stark and horrifying reality!
When you get an email with the subject line, “FWD: Click here for an exciting treat,” you delete it because: gross. When you receive a small flood of emails from people you know with the same subject line, with “Urgent Message” red exclamation points of hysteria attached, you decide you should probably click there, for an exciting treat. In the email, there is some usual chain letter nonsense, Nana-style, and then a video. Really, it’s pretty hilarious.
There you are, all of 7 years old, on-stage at a school talent show. Why don’t you remember this? You must have blocked it out. You recognize the outfit — purple sequined crop-top, black bedazzled bike shorts, high pony-tail — a 90’s ideal. You’re surrounded by podiums of varying heights, and on each podium is a basket containing a doll. There are Barbies, Cabbage Patch Kids, a plush Minnie Mouse. The music starts to pulse, and your tiny hips start to sway profanely. The track? Right Said Fred’s 1992 classic, “I’m Too Sexy.” And you’re off — “I’m too sexy for my dolls, too sexy for my dolls, I’m too sexy for them alllll, yeah.” You skip from one basket to the next, being too sexy for Skipper, and Baby Huey, and Samantha from the American Girls. Is it awesome? You heard the part about the dolls, right? Is it sexy? I heard somewhere that it’s TOO sexy, but I can’t be sure where.
At first, you try to laugh it off. You’re a web sensation, and it’s pretty hilarious. Your friends change your ringtone to your new theme song, and you admit that it’s a good joke. You come into work to find a Bratz doll in your seat, with a note asking if you are too sexy for it, and you guffaw, admitting that you’re not. You watch the parody videos and memes (LOLDoll) with a sense of humor, and you fend off interview requests with a quiet dignity. But when the emails from old perverts start to roll in — asking you to sign their own dolls, asking if you still have those bike shorts and if they’ve been washed — you’re not giggling anymore. The other side of internet fame — the realization that it never goes away, that you’re available to anyone, anywhere, for any purpose — starts to sink in.
Packages of dolls arrive to your home, with no return address included. Some are normal, but others are disturbing — their little doll faces rubbed with human makeup, their tiny doll nipples painted, their non-existent doll genitals horribly disfigured. All include the same note, “R U 2 SEXXXY?” You’re terrified. You start sleeping at friends’ houses, but when faceless Polly Pockets are delivered to their stoops, they beg you to find shelter elsewhere.
You move home to be with your parents. For months, you are still shaken, but when there are no other incidents, no other packages, you start to regain some sense of safety and rebuild your life. One warm August night, your parents announce that they are going to the movies, and you tell them you think you’ll stay home. “Alone?” They asked, concerned, but ready for you to move past your fears. “Yes, I’ll be okay,” you say, unsure but proud.
When the doorbell rings the first time, you don’t answer. When it rings the 12th time, you know that you’re done for. You open the door to find an overlarge man in an undersized Raggedy Ann costume, holding a large shotgun. Calmly, quietly, and in a little girl’s voice, he tells you that you’re too sexy to live.