The Evil Genie grants three wishes a week. Leave a wish in the comments!
radbeck1 wishes: I wish I had a tower of beer that never ran out.
The Evil Genie replies: Granted! You have an unending beer tower, taller than a skyscraper and filled continuously by some kind of mysterious heavenly presence. You and your friends and your family and your co-workers and your bowling team and your AA meeting group can drink until your hearts are first content, and then exploding. Beer!
There, of course, some catches. First of all, the beer is Coors Light. Blehhhh. It’s not quite as dire as say, Natty Light or actual pisswater, but it’s not ideal. Also, obviously, housing a beer tower that is larger than a building is difficult — specifically, it’s impossible. Few skyscrapers are taller than a skyscraper, fewer still are hollow to the top, and only a paltry handful are willing to rent space to an enormous cylinder of alcohol. Those that are willing consider you as a tenant remind you that will need to rent all 68 stories of the tower, which, even with unlimited beer to sell, comes at an inconceivable price. Stuck outside, the beer tower is subject to the elements, you find rain and birds and bugs and even a small asteroid in your Coors Light. This does little to help the taste.
When the beer tower is discovered by the internet — and it is, as all awesome things eventually are — your situation BLOWS UP. The tower is a sensation, and people flock from far and wide for a mediocre, lukewarm sip. This begets a new problem: the economics of supply and demand are complicated and while I totally understand them — don’t worry about me — I think it’s enough to say that your beer tower is totally effing ess up. As an unlimited good, even full of cloud dust and space debris, your beer is tanking the price of alcohol nationwide. Breweries close and people are put out of work. Without the advertisements from beer companies, the National Football League is forced to disband.
Economists and politicians flock to the site of your tower for photo ops and to debate what should be done with this amazing unnatural resource. Eminent domain is invoked and the tower is seized from you. As the debate grows ever louder and more confusing, as debates do, it is decided that regardless of its alcoholic content, the Coors should be fed to people who are in desperate need of sustenance. The beer is bottled and shipped to starving children in the third world. Many die of diseases like bird flu and moon rock poisoning or cirrhosis.
Frustrated by what you have created and the destruction it has wrought, you sneak into Area 51 — the only place the government could afford to hide the towering tower. You look up up up up up at your wish and shake your fists. “What have you done?” You wail. “What have I done?” You approach the tower and shove it a little. It wobbles. You shake it now, pounding it with your fists, screaming, crying. Finally, it cracks, and the force of the liquid turns that hairline fracture into gushing leak and then a massive golden waterfall. Somewhere in the Arizona desert, you drown.