When you look in your pocket you discover the packet of TimTams which never runs out has appeared. You rip it open and settle down to watch TV while enjoying the bounty, but you discover that although you have eaten enough of the little buggers to cure you of the desire permanently, the package keeps spilling TimTams onto the table. The table fills up and they start rolling across the floor. You sweep them all out the door, but by the time you wake the next morning your house is 3 feet deep in TimTams. You start mailing boxes of the things to everybody you know at The Cellar, but they just keep coming. The Food Bank refuses to accept anymore of them. Film crews arrive to document your dwelling with streams of TimTams pouring out all the windows. The Australian Environmental Protection Agency declares your property a toxic waste dump when they discover you have been burying them in the back yard at night. Fortunately, when you are booked into prison, they take away all your clothes and possessions, so the bottomless packet of TimTams goes into the police Evidence Room.


I wish I had a VCR that didn't break all the time.

Your vcr is completely sound but still bitter over beta SONY finally buys out ever tape manufacturer and shuts them down, starting your serial relationship with low quality dvd players.

I wish the Cellar music project would include a ska speed metal version of the Skye Boat Song.

I just uploaded the song to cmep2, enjoy! Oh yeah, it was carrying a nasty virus that didn't actually wipe out your data, though you wish it had. Instead it qiuetly began downloading innapropriate materials and emailing them to everyone in your address book, while simultaneously taunting the feds with info that you have been downloading unlicensed music.

I wish I could get a little bit of help with the projects around here.

In a flash of light, a midget appears, walks over to your least pressing project, performs 30 seconds of labor on it, and vanishes in an equal flash of light, leaving you realizing that you have, indeed, just received a *little bit of help*.

I wish I had seen, in person, the Eagles concert which I am presently watching on Bravo.

Since time travel is not going to be an option within your lifetime, you despair of ever having your wish granted. Tired of not getting your way with anything, you decide to become a Mormon. You really get into your new religion, you love giving orders and making things happen and after many years you eventually rise to a very high position in the Salt Lake City Temple. Your word is law, you are considered a very holy person, and when you die you definitely go to heaven with a fast track for advancement. After several millenia of increasingly impressive reincarnations, you reach the ideal pure state of being which all Mormon men may aspire to and you become a god yourself, with your own universe and the works. One day, inbetween creating planets and people to worship you, you suddenly remember that long-long-ago concert by the Eagles. Ah HA! Now you are God and you can go back and watch that concert in person, just like you always wanted to. So you do :D


I wish I could get 8 hours of sleep every night and wake up feeling perfectly well.

Granted. In fact, you feel so good, you resolve to work to your fullest. You quickly rise to CEO of a powerful international company, at which point you are shot dead by a mod hitman for no reason that you can see.

I wish I were in the land of cotton...

You find yourself in the antebellum South, a slave singing mournful Negro Spirituals as you struggle to pick cotton in the fields under the hot, Southern, Summer sun.

I wish I had the presentation for the lecture I foolishly agreed to give during my vacation finished.

Okay, your lecture is finished, but so is your vacation.

I wish my Mac's battery hadn't just died.

It wasn't the battery; it was the motherboard.

I wish I was better at thinking up birthday presents for family.

(You are probably right, HM. Woe is me!)

I wish I could talk like Margaret Cho.

------------------------------------------


You can't even get to me. I got special service, boundaries like the rings of Saturn. I am protected. I am four – five faggots deep all around me, who don't see your name on the list, who will not let you in here looking like that, who will hold you in a cold, hard, unflinching stare or back hand compliment you until you cry. Yes I have security tighter than Ryan Seacrest's asshole, at least as tight as his publicist says it is.
-Margaret Cho-

You think of the perfect gift every time, but you have no means of expressing what it is or aquiring it.


I wish I could concentrate.

By simmering and simmering, reducing and reducing, you finally create the perfect port wine concentrate. Then you burn it.

I wish I were an Oscar Meyer Weiner.

Everyone is in love with you. Or they would be, if you weren't an eight-year old OM weiner. Instead, it's the rats that love you, as they devour your rotten, moldy, discarded carcass. Later, these same rats meet their end in a hot dog meat grinder...

I wish I WASN'T HOOKED ON SINFESTTTT! ARRRGH IVE BEEN READING THEM ALL DAY AND I CANT STOPPPP

You finally get to the end of Sinfest only to have me lend you all three of his books. After you wade, bleary eyed through the books you discover Girl Genius here and here. :blunt:


I wish UT would win the lottery.