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I wish that it was already August 13th!** spoiler omitted **** spoiler omitted **
Psst... make your wish! BWAH-HA-HA-HA-HA!
A heavy object falls on you and you fall into a coma, waking up on August 13th, and you remember nothing of the intervening time. Unfortunately, no one found you lying there, so everyone presumed you were dead and took your stuff.
I wish I could win the Publisher's Clearing House grand prize.
I wish I could win the Publisher's Clearing House grand prize.
GRANTED
Yep, you're feeling lucky. Gas prices are slowly coming down, over-the-air digital TV reception seems to be improving a little, and you weren't in the latest round of layoffs at work. Gotta take small victories when & where you can get them.
Normally, you'd just pitch the PCH envelope in the recycle bin, but... well, still feeling lucky. So you dutifully afix the appropriate stickers and check the appropriate boxes, slip it in the envelope, and leave it in the mailbox. Oops!- almost forgot to write in your return address and put on a Forever stamp. There! Yep, someone has to win the multi-million grand prize... and it could be you. You smile and wave to your new mailman as you leave for work again to fill-in a few extra non-paid overtime hours this afternoon. Gosh, the mailman just grimaced at you... "Have a nice day!" you shout and wave as you pull out of the driveway.
...
The mailman watches his "postal customer" drive off and shakes his head in disgust. He thought transferring out here into suburbs and away from NY City would be more relaxing... but no! Longer routes, even higher mail volume, and still no permanent sub! But the worst has to be these insipidly cheerful idiots everywhere!
He removes the stupid mail from the stupid mailbox... and spys the stupid Publisher's Clearing House return envelope. Argh, he hates PCH!!! -- they generate so much extra junk mail to deliver. Angrily, he chucks the PCH envelope into the back of the truck. Later, toward the end of his route, he'll swing by the U-Store-It place and drop off another load of undelivered mail. "Losing" mail remained one of the few simple pleasures left to Postal Employee Newman, Mail Carrier in Suburban Hell!
Sorry, but you did type 'could' and not 'would.'
I wish... that kids everywhere went outside to play more.
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I wish that it was already August 13th!** spoiler omitted **** spoiler omitted **
Psst... make your wish! BWAH-HA-HA-HA-HA!
It is August 13th, 1999. Third edition is about to be released, and journalists for Dragon Magazine are writing great reviews for it. There's a lot of hype. Wizards of the Coast is still adjusting to the enormous fan base, but they seem to be handling it well (although they are a bit militaristic). The internet is becoming faster and better, and analysts say it can only improve. You haven't even heard of Pathfinder (much less 3.5 or 4e), but you're having fun with the other campaign settings.
Edit: Gah! Totally ninja'd!I wish... that kids everywhere went outside to play more.
The world erupts in devastating nuclear war. Every major city is destroyed, and among the ensuing mutants is a type of wood-boring beetle that is as large as a man's hand. These creatures have fantastic resistances to insecticides, and incredibly fast metabolisms that are geared towards dead wood. Soon, every house that used wood is stripped bare of any wood product, causing most of them to collapse. Now, 50 years later, all paper is destroyed and architects are scarce. No one knows how to build stone buildings - there have been attempts, but the earthquakes caused by repeated tectonic jarring took care of them. A group of scientists is designing a virus that will attack the reproductive system of the beetle, so perhaps there is hope - but will people remember the old ways with all of the teachers dead and only computers to work with?
I wish I had a hardcover copy of the PFRPG.
I wish I had a hardcover copy of the PFRPG.
GRANTED
And, lo, with the impending release of the Pathfinder RPG, the Powers at Paizo looked upon the Boards and saw the Great Excitement was Massive. So, in their Wisdom, they sought to increase the Hype even more. They summoned the Postmonster, who with his hundred hands, was highly capable, and charged him with task 101. He was to monitor the Boards, and with his Detect Valued Contributors, select a list of 50 most worthy to receive an autographed and personalized Great Book. Alas, poor Gark came in 51st.
But then, Ambrosia having randomly been selected by Puddle for beta-testing his masterwork, Tasha's Unfathomable Babble, went completely insane and was commited to an Institution of Mental Rest. Being certifiably insane (not just suspected) was an unfortunate disqualification for the Contest for the Great Book. Yay, verily, Gark was bumped up to 50, and lo, his copy was soon on the way via the US Mail.
Unfortunately, Newman the Mail Carrier, had recently transferred again... to Gark's route. And so, Gark's much beloved copy of the Pathfinder RPG lay undelivered, mouldering in an Your-Sh*t-Here storage locker... perhaps to yet be re-discovered by an intrepid band of adventurers.
.
I wish... I had an Ever-Refilling Pint of Coffee Haagen-Daaz.
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I wish... I had an Ever-Refilling Pint of Coffee Haagen-Daaz.
Granted. You have a wondrous carton that perpetually refills itself with amazing ice cream. It never overflows, and tastes wonderful*. When it's kept cold, of course. Unfortunately, it's so awesome that it shorts out every refrigerator and freezer you try to put it in, and ends up a perpetually refilling soggy carton of coffee-flavored cream.
I wish box sets weren't so impractical.
Edit: Linky.
I wish my computer was faster.Granted. Of course, you system is no so overclocked that your motherboard burns out, taking your hardware memory with it.
I wish that the Buck Rodgers comic would be revived!
** spoiler omitted **
/threadjack
It appears that this wish has been granted!
/end threadjack
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I wish... I had an Ever-Refilling Pint of Coffee Haagen-Daaz.Granted. You have a wondrous carton that perpetually refills itself with amazing ice cream. It never overflows, and tastes wonderful*. When it's kept cold, of course. Unfortunately, it's so awesome that it shorts out every refrigerator and freezer you try to put it in, and ends up a perpetually refilling soggy carton of coffee-flavored cream.
** spoiler omitted **
I wish box sets weren't so impractical.
Edit: Linky.
Though they were once inefficient and wasteful, boxed sets have evolved intelligence so that they are always as practical as possible. They never fantasize, but that means they are emotionless. A malignant entity influences them, causing them to attack mankind in a grab for world domination.
They control humans by latching onto their necks with little claws made of miniatures and paper, which cut into the nerve conduits and alter their paths. They send information to the brain, telling it that it is in a fantasy world. Gamers are the first to go, as they often buy the sets and easily accept the new world. The boxed sets do this so that they will not be fought, and have free rein to control the body.It is unknown who will win the war between boxed sets and humans; the most diehard RPG-haters make up much of the remaining un-controlled populace, as they never associate with gamers.
You foolishly buy a set from Paizo, and it takes over your body. You don't care, though: you're actually in a fantasy world!
I wish wishes were fishes.
I wish that I got more paid vacation time at work without losing my job or comprimising my employment in any way.
MEMO: Effective January 1, 2018 (yes, that is the correct year) all employees will get the morning of the first Monday after New Years off for this one year only.
I wish I knew why we are here.
I wish that I got more paid vacation time at work without losing my job or comprimising my employment in any way.MEMO: Effective January 1, 2018 (yes, that is the correct year) all employees will get the morning of the first Monday after New Years off for this one year only.
I wish I knew why we are here.
Granted. However, man was not meant to know why people post on this inane topic, and so your mind is fried. Mind flayers and zombies are happy.
I wish I understood what people see in FR, besides the good books.
I wish I understood what people see in FR, besides the good books.
{stops to consider giving the kobold a serious answer... nah} GRANTED
You wake up slowly to an apparent 4-alarm hangover. You find yourself in the hospital, in a private recovery room, laying on your stomach. A nurse in a skimpy uniform is finishing your sponge-bath. Your eyes go for walkies on the exotic terrain, until they discover her nametag. *Isn't "Ambrosia" a weird name for a nurse?* The name starts to ring a bell, but you are distracted by the entrance of a doctor.
"Oh hello, Mr Kobold. I'm happy to see you're awake so soon. How are you feeling?"
You attempt to utter a reply, but words are slow to come to your parched throat. "Uhnnnn-"
"Good, good, Mr Kobold," replies the doctor, not listening to you. "The transplant was a complete success. Mr. Greenwood's brain was transplanted into the Hybrid Umbilicled Mind Protector on your back. Per SOP, we cauterized off the personality and independence centers in his brain. However, the rest of his higher functions and all of his memories should be readily available to you. I know you passed your psi-management training at the top of your class, but please be careful and take it slowly.
The doctor and the "nurse" leave (the latter with a sexy pout, a naughty wink, and a very distracting swaying of her hips) and you settle back into a half wakeful state. You can feel the direct mental linkages to the strangeness, the other, but it offers no resistance to your tentative probes. *To hell with dipping in a toe* You plunge in, tasking the auxiliary brain: "SHOW ME YOUR FAERUN."
Your mental landscape tilts sideways and you are immersed in the rich history of the Forgotten Realms, the sum accumulation of over 40 years in real-world time. You are steeped in the vibrancy of the heroes, the villains, the ordinary folk. Waves wash over you as you swim through the hydroclines: the lands, the creator races, the gods, the ethnicities, and all the untold dreams and stories buried by NDAs... the real magic of the setting. So distracted are you by the density, the enormity of it all, that the mnemonic undertow catches you unready, and you are sucked into a cool lagoon of memories. Joyful, wonderful, inspiring memories of the uncounted numbers of fans who experienced this world part-time for themselves and built a sense of community here -- tens of thousands of whom were compelled enough to personally correspond, talk, and even meet with the creator of it ALL to thank him and beg for more. You also feel a touch of sadness mixed with hope for a rebuilt Realms, post 4th edition, and are startled to realize that it comes not from the implanted mind, but your own.
Meanwhile...
Two generic black vans pull up outside the surgical center. Within, the two teams wordlessly go over their checklists for the mission. A digital watch beeps once, signaling 2AM. Silently, the two teams of Candlekeep Ninjas glide out from the vans like shadows. They will extract the Greenwood from his bonds and surgically reverse the abominable procedure, turning that body's master into it's slave. And Myrkul take any who dare try to stop them.
(whew! sorry so long)
I wish... that this thread were more popular amongst the Paizonians.
Granted. Now it moves too fast for you to track. Eventually, the Board overloads and is destroyed.
I wish I had Ed out of my mind.
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Granted. Now it moves too fast for you to track. Eventually, the Board overloads and is destroyed.
I wish I had Ed out of my mind.
Sorry, but he is your mind now. Sorry. That wish is invalid (you're actually in his mind).
But, assuming you meant "out of my body" :A group called the ILF (Id Liberation Front) kidnaps you, then takes you to a nearby warehouse where they remove the HUMP without anesthetic. They take you back to the hospital, and you forget that Greenwood ever controlled your body.
Of course, then the group that removed the bonds of Greenwood comes back, and implants the mind of R.A. Salvatore (whose brain then controls yours).
I wish the poodles would be forced to be realistic.
I wish I had Ed out of my mind.
GRANTED
You wake up again... with another massive migraine. You remember vaguely of a trip through Mr. Greenwood's head and then something about... ninjas?! You quickly discover that you seem to be paralyzed, and yet you feel something cool (metal?) clamped around your head. You must have received a concussion during the ninja extraction or some side effect of the surgery, because everything seems to be in black and white. Also, there is a six foot tall anthropomorphized hamster dressed in surgical garb standing over you.
"Woo-, er, Dr. Necessiter are we ready?"
"Yes," the hamster replies, "whenever you'd like to start." From off to one side, comes the sound of someone fumbling something, and then you hear the opening notes of Pennies from Heaven.
The hamster's companion steps into your peripheral vision. He appears to be a tall caucasian man with silver-white hair dressed in surgical scrubs, otherwise identical to the hamster except for the arrow prop going through his head.
The unusual pair work quickly and competently. The top of your skull is unscrewed (?!?!) and your brain not-so-gingerly removed. You feel (?!) a tingling at the back of your brain and suddenly you seem to have a grainy form of vision and hearing back. You are unceremoniously plopped into a 1-gallon glass jar and placed onto a high shelf.
You stare past the handwritten "LAMRON YBBA" label on the outside of your jar and focus on the two doctors below. The flip your former body over and swiftly (but very gently this time) remove the brain from the H.U.M.P. apparatus on your former back. The human doctor carries it over to a second gurney, where the hamster removes the sheet to expose the body's- her head.
"Do you think he'll mind being stuck in a statuesque blonde female body." asks the human man.
They both pause for a beat before bursting into laughter. "Oh, good one, Dr. Hfuhruhurr." replies the hamster.
While the demented pair continue their work, a somewhat familiar looking nurse enters and starts to wheel your body towards the OR doors.
"Into the incinerator with this then?"
The hamster looks up. "No, wheel it down to the kitchen and grind it up into brats. We'll trade it to the Jacks for a keg of beer."
.
Edit: Crap! Too long, ninja'ed again!
Granted. Now it moves too fast for you to track. Eventually, the Board overloads and is destroyed.
I wish I had Ed out of my mind.Sorry, but he is your mind now. Sorry. That wish is invalid (you're actually in his mind).
But, assuming you meant "out of my body" :A group called the ILF (Id Liberation Front) kidnaps you, then takes you to a nearby warehouse where they remove the HUMP without anesthetic. They take you back to the hospital, and you forget that Greenwood ever controlled your body.
Of course, then the group that removed the bonds of Greenwood comes back, and implants the mind of R.A. Salvatore (whose brain then controls yours).I wish the poodles would be forced to be realistic.
Right, that's it. When I get around to it, I'm wiping the Slaadi and Moorluck's country off the Board.
Right, that's it. When I get around to it, I'm wiping the Slaadi and Moorluck's country off the Board.
I wish the poodles would be forced to be realistic.
GRANTED
Gark enters the laboratory visiting his gnome friend, Gnorm Stoolsitter, and cries "Gnorm!" The diminutive -- even by gnomish standards -- scientist looks up from the lab workbench. *How could a gnome so short have such a huge nose?*
"Ah, good to see you Cliffy," (*And I keep telling him I'm Gark! Not Cliff!*) greets Gnorm, "you're just in time to experience the wonders of my latest invention, The Realizer!"
Gark cringes visibly. "This isn't going to blow up, is it?"
"No, don't be silly, of course not. At least it shouldn't..."
(From caution and experience, Gark silently utters a Protection from Fire spell, and relaxes somewhat as it hums into existence.)
"Now, Ga-, er, Cliffy, who should we test it on first?"
Without even waiting for an explanation of the device's effects, Gark shouts "THE POODLES!" *Yes, let them be blown up or suffer the magical blowback from the device.*
Gnorm raises an eyebrow (or he would had it not been singed off previously). "Hmmm, an interesting choice. Odd, I was going to suggest the Poodle Lords as well. Very well then, the poodles it is!" Gnorm lowers his safety goggles and flips the switch and speaks into a perforated grill. "Target lock: RotPL. Effect: Convert them to full Realism, level 11."
A low hum issues from the machine, and then the world as Gark knows it is twisted inside out. Dimensions and perceptions are folded, mutilated, spindled, and shredded... then glued messily back together. As Gark recovers his senses, he barely comprehend the changes around him- *By Hungry Jacks Biscuits!* -the changes in him! All perspective is completely distorted into a nightmarish mishmash. Gark feels nauseous as the beginnings of madness begin to sink in. He turns his head to the left so that both his eyes and his mouth (which are inexplicably on the right side of his face, his nose having moved to the left side) face the gnome. "GNORM! What have you done?! You have to fix this!!!
"Fix it?!" replies the gnome, who remains the only thing unchanged, "Why? The poodles are all now completely Realistic. And Realism cannot exist in a vacuum, so you had to become... Other. 'Cubist' I believe is the official term." Gnorm picks up the distorted Realizer and walks to the back door. Gark attempts to follow, but he cannot manage to coordinate his limbs properly anymore.
As he steps through the door, Gnorm grabs at his own face and tears off the very flesh -- no! some thin, stretchy, flesh-colored material -- to reveal a short white dog with glasses! "Sherman, prepare the Wayback Machine for a side-slip to the RotPL dimension."
.
I wish... pet rocks became popular again.
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I wish... pet rocks became popular again.
Granted, pet rocks become popular - extremely popular. Eventually, their intense popularity leads to the founding of a new religion, which ruthlessly begins stamping out other religions. Violence erupts across the globe - with millions killing and dying in the name of their miniature stone overlords.
I wish I could figure out what to get my wife for her birthday.
I wish I could figure out what to get my wife for her birthday.
Granted. You find a beautiful shawl with a jade clasp, and you just know that it is the perfect gift for her. You buy it, and hide it at home, in a place you are sure she will never look.
She finds the shawl while snooping around, and freaks out, thinking that the shawl was left by some other woman. The sales assistant left a red hair on the shawl. Your protests of innocence fall on deaf ears, and she tears up her gift in inconsolable grief. It takes hours to calm her down, and years to heal the trust between you.
I wish that strange men in black suits would loiter around all the therapists offices where psychiatrists hypnotise people to remember spurious 'alien abductions', and that the U.S air force would sieze the presses of the abductee magazines without explanation, just to freak the crazies out.
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I wish that strange men in black suits would loiter around all the therapists offices where psychiatrists hypnotise people to remember spurious 'alien abductions', and that the U.S air force would sieze the presses of the abductee magazines without explanation, just to freak the crazies out.
This reminds of my idea of going to an Asylum just to follow the paranoids around...
I wish that strange men in black suits would loiter around all the therapists offices where psychiatrists hypnotise people to remember spurious 'alien abductions', and that the U.S air force would sieze the presses of the abductee magazines without explanation, just to freak the crazies out.
GRANTED
"Who do you work for? What are you doing? No! Don't touch those-," his wide-eyed protestations were cut short as he dropped to the floor, convulsing wildly.
Agent Hoyle smiled as he held the trigger down on his taser. "Goldman, didn't you see him go for a weapon?"
"Sure looked it to me," Agent Goldman replied with a smirk, then went back to helping another agent disassemble the crazy's computer.
Hoyle forced a tight smile. He'd naturally rather be out taking down drug cartels or terrorists, but the push had come down from above. Catching the "real bad guys" took substantial expenditures of money and manpower, and was a largely thankless task. It was far easier to go after those members of society who were already on the fringe. Most of them were poor, in dead-end jobs, and had minimal participation in their local community. Many had some formal of mental illness, from mild depression to full-blown 5-alarm schizophrenia. Easy enough to pop in on them and shake their tree... and see what nuts, fruits, and flakes fall out. Many of them were in borderline lives anyway, and would often react in unpredictable and violet ways. Easy arrests. Many of them used illegal means to get through the day -- more easy arrests: for DVD & software piracy, illegal brainbenders, weapon charges... little stuff, but arrests none the same.
When the State can't truly protect it's citizens, then often Security Theater would be just as good.
He was so busy lost in thought that he almost missed the precursor headache sneaking up on him. With quick practiced ease, he slipped the inhaler out and took two long hits. He paused for a beat, then took another inhaled dose for good measure. Within seconds he could feel the drugs start to take effect, crushing down his conscience, then kicking it back into a cold dark corner of his consciousness.
"Hey, go easy on that. You don't wanna burn out on it." offered Goldman with a genuinely fake smile.
"I'm fine. Mind you own damn business." Hoyle picked up the two boxes of computer media and lugged them out to the waiting truck. Two more agents followed behind him with the hogtied UFO nut in tow.
Agent Goldman stepped into the empty kitchen and dialed the secure hotline. "Yes sir, it's Goldman. You were right about Hoyle. I think it's time to set up an "intervention"...
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I wish... I could eat just one potato chip.
I wish... I could eat just one potato chip.
Granted! You are suddenly ten years old again and terminally ill. As you have only a month or two to live, you are visited by the Make a Wish people. When you wish to eat a huge potato chip, they bring you one that is fresh from the factory. Unfortunately, you had an unknown allergy to the one of the ingredients used, and suffocate as your throat closes. But the important thing is you got to eat just one chip. One last chip...
Granted! You are suddenly ten years old again and terminally ill. As you have only a month or two to live, you are visited by the Make a Wish people. When you wish to eat a huge potato chip, they bring you one that is fresh from the factory. Unfortunately, you had an unknown allergy to the one of the ingredients used, and suffocate as your throat closes. But the important thing is you got to eat just one chip. One last chip...I wish... I could eat just one potato chip.
Speaking of "Make a Wish" you need to make yours. :)
I wish Db3's Astral Projection would play this game correctly.
I wish Db3's Astral Projection would play this game correctly.
Granted. Db3's Astra Projection's wishes are so poetic that he inspires a cult following. This cult grows and grows, and soon all humans follow his wishes.
I wish a d6 rolled 1-7.
Speaking of "Make a Wish" you need to make yours. :)
I think thats the first time I forgot to make a wish after twisting one...
I wish I had wings that are large enough in size to allow flight.
Speaking of "Make a Wish" you need to make yours. :)I think thats the first time I forgot to make a wish after twisting one...
I wish I had wings that are large enough in size to allow flight.
You missed your chance. sorry.
Done and done and done!
Nasty Pajama's d6 rolls a 1, which transforms into a 7, then the d6 rolls off the table and bounces into Bill Lumberg's Red Ryder BB Gun, which fires just as Db3 takes off in flight with his large wings. The d7 breaks Db3's wing and Db3 plummets to the ground. It bounces back toward Bill Lumberg, and, yes, puts his eye out.
I wish my puppy was potty trained.
I wish my puppy was potty trained.
Your puppy has a siezure, and a blood clot works its way into its brain, causing a stroke. The puppy starts to use the toilet correctly after the stroke, but it becomes violent and aggressive, and bites anyone who comes near the toilet. After the second biting, it is put down.
I wish that astrology would decline and wither, and cease to have the sway and cult it has now.
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Contributor, RPG Superstar 2012
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Your puppy has a siezure, and a blood clot works its way into its brain, causing a stroke. The puppy starts to use the toilet correctly after the stroke, but it becomes violent and aggressive, and bites anyone who comes near the toilet. After the second biting, it is put down.
I wish my puppy was potty trained.
I wish that astrology would decline and wither, and cease to have the sway and cult it has now.
GRANTED
Dr. Hoyle, famed cult deprogrammer and protege of James Randi finished reading the report and allowed himself a smile. True, lasting victories came so few and far between these days. But per the latest reports, there actually appeared to real, meaningful progress. The not-yet-two-year old campaign against using animals for Asian "medicine" has already reported a 187% decrease in usage, and a corresponding drop in poaching of endangered animals, like tigers and elephants. Last year, there were less than two dozen people who were swindled in the "Overthrown Prince" scheme. Less than two weeks ago, famed spoonbender and psychic, the Stupendous Yappi, broke down during a live television interview and admitted that he was a fraud and charlatan. Even the ancient belief in astrology had waned so much that public polls put astrology belief at under 1% -- so low that it couldn't be statistically measured accurately. Numerous specialty publishing houses and astrology-related tsotchke manufacturers have filed for bankruptcy or gone out of business.
Yes, finally, he could allow himself hope that mankind might actually shrug off thousands of years of superstitious ignorance. And good riddance to all the snake-oil salesmen, con-men, swindlers, and thieves who preyed upon the innocent and trusting. Yes, remember this day, December 2nd, 2008.
He half-heartedly flipped through the letters his secretary left on the corner of his desk. Bill, bill, bill, bi-, no wait, a monthly statement on the company investments. He considered opening it, but didn't bother; it was the same good news every month. He'd gotten lucky and invested early and heavily, both professionally and personally, and it had paid off handsomely. Feeling so good, he decided to take off work early, and surprise his lovely wife with an impromptu dinner and a night out. It would do their strained marriage good.
Grabbing his coat and briefcase, he flipped off the lights, silently thanking his luck in finding an honest businessman like Bernard Madoff.
.
I wish... people would stop to think before they spoke.
. . . . . . .Granted.
. . . . . .People stop to think before every sentence.
. . . . . .They become quieter and slower.
. . . . . .They shuffle, rapt in thought.
. . . . . .The thoughts become dull and slow, and over-considered.
. . . . . .The trains of thought are watchamacallit.
. . . . . .The thingum is whatsit.
. . . . . .People stop more often.
. . . . . .They quite slow shuffle wrapped sullanddow over-thunk.
. . . . . .Virus eating brain.
. . . . . .Braaains!
. . . . . .Braaains!
I wish that there were a way to recycle waste with full efficiency, and with less than a percent of the current energy costs.
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Done and done and done!
Nasty Pajama's d6 rolls a 1, which transforms into a 7, then the d6 rolls off the table and bounces into Bill Lumberg's Red Ryder BB Gun, which fires just as Db3 takes off in flight with his large wings. The d7 breaks Db3's wing and Db3 plummets to the ground. It bounces back toward Bill Lumberg, and, yes, puts his eye out.
"Ah! I'd done it! I shot my eye out!"
Oh how I wish I had something to replace my eye with.
You should grab the one out of Taliesin Hoyle's hand.
Oh how I wish I had something to replace my eye with.
{stabs Billie in the eye socket with chunk of fancy Fra-Gee-Lay lamp and wedges it in there} GRANTED
I wish... Taliesin Hoyle would get his wish ("I wish that there were a way to recycle waste with full efficiency, and with less than a percent of the current energy costs").
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Done and done and done!
Nasty Pajama's d6 rolls a 1, which transforms into a 7, then the d6 rolls off the table and bounces into Bill Lumberg's Red Ryder BB Gun, which fires just as Db3 takes off in flight with his large wings. The d7 breaks Db3's wing and Db3 plummets to the ground. It bounces back toward Bill Lumberg, and, yes, puts his eye out.
"Ah! I'd done it! I shot my eye out!"
Oh how I wish I had something to replace my eye with.
The poodlekin has one.
Oh how I wish I had something to replace my eye with.{stabs Billie in the eye socket with chunk of fancy Fra-Gee-Lay lamp and wedges it in there} GRANTED
You should have used a poodle or a slaad egg.
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Oh how I wish I had something to replace my eye with.{stabs Billie in the eye socket with chunk of fancy Fra-Gee-Lay lamp and wedges it in there} GRANTED
I wish... Taliesin Hoyle would get his wish ("I wish that there were a way to recycle waste with full efficiency, and with less than a percent of the current energy costs").
A physicist walks up to Taliesin as he waits in traffic.
"I hear you want to know how to recycle waste with full efficiency! Well, we've discovered a unique form of nuclear fission only found in the sun's core that achieves ultimate recycling efficiency! Just toss your matter in, and the sun burns it up and spews it out in the form of pure energy. The only problem is that it uses powerful radiation, which means that humans can't get close enough to harness the recycled energy. Sure, it's cheap, but we can't do anything with it!"We've devised a special suit that should block all radiation, but we don't know if it will work yet. Seeing as you are so interested in the issue, we're offering you the unique opportunity to test it! Just a few years to get close enough, then you'll operate the machine to catch the energy."
Taliesin accepts the offer, since it will better humanity, and is sent in to the sun. Unfortunately, just at that moment, the sun suffered a fluke supernova, which destroyed the entire solar system.
I wish I had more unique 3.5 books.
Poodles don't lay eggs.You should have used a poodle or a slaad egg.Oh how I wish I had something to replace my eye with.{stabs Billie in the eye socket with chunk of fancy Fra-Gee-Lay lamp and wedges it in there} GRANTED
Quell, wee lei sumding.
Leis uh laendmien.
I wish I had more unique 3.5 books.
After the fire, no other 3.5 books look anything quite like yours do. The forensic investigator is a fundamentalist, and you are framed and arrested for arson, despite the fact that the fire was an accident. If only the part of the Fiend Folio he saw had burned with the rest.
I wish that OSRIC would grow in popularity enough to be competitive with monopoly and uno.
Did this lamp belong to Vecna at any time? Will it give me cool powers?
{shrugs shoulders} It might. Did you plug it in and turn it on?
I wish that OSRIC would grow in popularity enough to be competitive with monopoly and uno.
I wish that OSRIC would grow in popularity enough to be competitive with monopoly and uno.
GRANTED
YES! He finished his final hardcopy proofread and started the FTP batch upload. Within minutes the latest version of OSRIC, custom tweaked for optimal playability and fun, would be live on the website. As a veteran D&D player since Gygax's and Arneson's old blue box, he had grown increasingly dissatisfied with the compromises and false directions that the game had taken. After 4th edition rolled out, he was completely fed up with the commercial developers' visions. So, for over a year, he spent every available free moment building a fantasy RPG from scratch, to take it back to the roots that started the whole RPG craze. His labor of love, which he dubbed OSRIC, was finally ready to take the game-playing world by storm. He took all of his meager savings, scrimped from over a year in his thankless 'real-life' job, and took out a barrage of ads to pre-announce the release of (hopefully) the best RPG ever created.
Checking the website counter, he was stunned by the number of downloads that had already taken place. Thankfully, he had upgraded to a higher bandwidth plan last week, so his OSRIC site should handle the demand. Cautioning himself not to get too confident, he made a mental note to keep tabs with it throughout the coming days.
Before he'd left his last RPG group in disgust, they'd rode him mercilessly about his game-play, his characters, even his fundamental understanding of the game mechanics and intent. Well, he wouldn't have to put up with their crap anymore. No more name-calling, like "the King of Monty Haulers," "Mr. Min-Max," and "Lord of Munchkins." No, his Optimized Simple Roll-Playing (Incredibly Crunchy) game would show them all.
Sighing with relief, he moved on to his next project... the complete revision of Time Cube! So many great ideas there, but the original author just refused to think "outside the box"...
.
I wish... everyone in the world turned into a hippie for just one day before changing back to their original selves.
Fiat, fiat, fiat! After having changed back to their normal selves, when people compare notes and find that everyone has a vague recollection of a day as a hippie, the memories of those unfortunates unable to enjoy the experience and the dim but growing awareness of the almost inconceivable rash of awkward moments and encounters, bad trips and decisions, along with plain silliness, that occurred, provoke an overwhelming reaction. In the backlash, the progress of societies world-wide towards ideal freedom and happiness stalls for decades.
I wish that I could work towards a respectable academic career in the ivory tower without having to worry about how much time I spend on the Paizo boards and the Internet generally, without giving up either.
I wish that I could work towards a respectable academic career in the ivory tower without having to worry about how much time I spend on the Paizo boards and the Internet generally, without giving up either.
Your brain tumour somehow switches off your need to sleep. Through the blinding, throbbing pain and nausea, you distract yourself with work, and still have time to browse the boards. All with large print. You get a little academic respect, but mostly by people who are aware of your condition and amazed that you can type at all with such large neurological deficits.
I wish that the historian Peter Watson would make a high quality documentary series with the BBC, about the history of ideas.