The Evil Genie grants three wishes a week. Leave a wish in the comments!
Syzygygygy wishes: Oh, proud and mighty evil genie, please grant me my wish! Let me drop mad rhymes like Dr. Seuss.
The Evil Genie replies: Congratulations! You awake tomorrow to find that you rhyme in the classic Seussian style: furiously, compulsively, non-dictionarily, and with only a passing regard for logic.
At first you are excited to meet your friends for brunch, planning rhymes about mancakes and handshakes and branflakes and fan breaks, but when you leave your house and begin to speak to others you find there is a glitch in your system: You are unable to express thoughts that don’t rhyme, and, with the speed of your gift far surpassing the speed of your regular mental and emotional responses, you rarely say anything close to what you mean when another person is speaking to you.
Meeting your friends, you immediately find that your new skill makes for fairly unpredictable conversations. When someone says, “It’s nice to meet you,” you blurt, “I often pee blue.” When someone says, “You look nice today,” you shout, “Schmloo schmook flice fillet.” When someone says, “Pass me the salt, please,” you cry out, “This is your fault, TEASE.” As you realize the severity of your condition, you try to use your eyes to beg the people around you to be silent long enough that you can keep from responding and work out a rhyme that will explain your new speech impediment, but it is no use. They squabble anxiously about what has gone wrong with you, and the situation escalates quickly.
“Why are you being so strange?” “Parles-vous kneeing the range.” “Is he losing it?” “Fizzy fusing grits!” “Stop talking like that, calm down.” “Mop walking trike bat, harm clown.” “Harm clown?!” “Farm crown!” “Farm crown?!!?” “Marm drown!” Wild-eyed, terrified, and possibly having implicated yourself in the double murder of Bozo and a librarian, you jump up from the table and run from your friends, trying but failing to block your ears, screaming, “Schmear car true glowing?”
You run into the street, flailing and wailing, where you are encounter a hernia patient named Gus who drives a bus and doesn’t cuss or make a fuss but wears a truss prescribed by his doctor Russ. Adjusting his pad and belt, he doesn’t notice you dithering, blithering, flithering into the street and strikes your body with flat, blat, splat. That thing about his doctor’s name is just a coincidence.