Your wish cannot be broken making it impossible to deny.
This genie doesn't break wishes so I really don't know what you're making it "unbreakable" for, geez.
You seem timid, so I'll just get you a bowl of vanilla ice cream...nothing too risky. I'll even double check the spoon to make sure that there are no sharp edges to worry about cutting your wittle wips on.
Left alone in your padded chair eating your safe bowl of vanilla you become agitated. My first thought was that you were gassy and needed to be burped, but your cranky level indicates that it's nap time.
I flip on your favorite episode of Little Bear and watch as you doze off to sleepyland.
Wasn't that fun?
I wish to know what'll happen if I knock 3 times on the ceiling?
This genie just happens to have a friend that works in a travel agency. He found a flight for you but you have to leave...now!
You make your way to the airport, you remember your passport, ID, and what cash you had laying around. You get to the plane and you're off. Woohoo, I love a good adventure.
It turns out this flight is going to be a lot longer than originally thought. You see, he had to book you with multiple stops and layovers. It's going to take you a week hopping through airports all over the world. Unfortunately, no layover is longer than 90 minutes which leaves you no spare time to sight see.
You finally touch down in Italy after a week of not bathing, sitting uncomfortably close to strangers, having children kick and pull on your seat, not understanding flight attendants and listening to screaming or crying babies. You have no money and your return ticket is scheduled to leave in 70 minutes. You can't even get the rotten t-shirt.
I wish to know, will I come home a winner from Las Vegas?
Granted! Peering deep into the brilliant and thouroughly buffed Saworski Ball of Futurdiction, I am able to peer into.... The Beyond!
Zeroing in on the aura of your being, and its relationship with the fates, I am able to determine just how lucky you will get in Las Vegas, and from what I can see: Things are looking pretty good for you!
Though a haze of absinthe and cheap gin clouds part of the details of your Vegas forray, I see you winning big at the Craps tables, and catching the eye of a fetching hirsute gentleman whose attire hints at a long term relationship after what one must assume is the traditional hour long catholic mass. Nothing but positive signs are visible in the Crystal Ball of All Seeing....
The Hirsute Gentleman in White plies you with drinks, seemingly enhanced by what appear to be vitamin pills. Based on how many he drops in your coctail, I'm assuming hes very concerned about your health, and as he should be, as in no time you seem to succumb to exhaustion. Perhaps the excitement of your big Craps win?
I see walls covered in peacock feathers, spatter, and what might be A535 with a bit of beach sand? Wedding bands glimmer as sheets fly furiously in the dimly lit ambiance of what looks like a moderatly maintained two star all-inclusive resort.
You found fortune at the tables, passion in a nearby hotel, and love, perhaps True Love, in the days to follow.
Oh yes, it would appear you come back from Vegas a Winner. You have fortune, you have love, and, from what I can see, triplets in your future. Everything's looking.....good. Excellent?
I wish for Eritrean Fast Food.
Staff edit: Image to large.
My edit: but if I send the image "to large," than it too will be too large and then I've got two images too large to use :'(
I am the Dongeon Master! Chedburn saves, the rest of you roll for damage:
This genie knew nothing of your far flung land's foods, so with the help of my mighty hamsters that spin on the wheel to keep my search engine (Netscape Navigator, naturally) working full tilt, I head off into the culinary world of Eritrea.
The first stop for me is a blog of local cuisine and what I find stops me in my tracks: "I'm a texture girl. When I find a bit of sand, I like to rub my finger against it. I crave nuts in my brownies. Hard crusts on my baguette. I like the skin that forms on homemade pudding."
I too like a bit of texture, in stores I always sweep my fingers along racks of hanging clothes as I pass by. I like the feel of cutting through dense paper or crafting foam sheets. I stop to reminisce the feel of a recently knitted angora scarf and I completely lose the will to go further with Eritrean food in general.
I keep reading the article and learn of a earthquake in China. This search for truth about Eritrean fast food is coming up empty handed. I can offer you a drumstick from a chain of fried chicken joints that oddly reminds me of Los Pollos Hermanos. Then I start thinking about the new season and the way that the last episode ended...I mean, was anyone else expecting Hank to start putting W.W. together so soon?!
Oh, let me know how the chicken is, I also found a site to invest in Eritrean commerce.
I wish The U.S. had a bullet train that traversed the country.
A bullet train wish is impossible not to grant!! Granted!!!
Traveling at 1240 feet per second, in true American fashion the bullet train is a splendiferous creation!
Richard Branson is green with envy of America's "Bigger, Badder, Bullet!"
Sadly during its first week of use it is commandeered by Tea Party faithful who envision it as the manifestation of their constitutional right to bear arms corrupted by the Liberal Media Conspiracy to provide, *shudder*, public transit, that most loathsome of socialist poisons.
The trains new occupants insist that it be liberated of its socialist ideals, freed of the constraints of the nanny state and it is subsequently freed of its tracks so that it might better serve those who can afford it in stead of being used by the hoards of unrich deadbeats that glut the landscape and undermine the American dream!
It lists wildly and leaps across the landscape at high speed, crashing through various low income neighbourhoods before screeching to a halt on an innocuous street in Beverly Hills, crushing a tiny Yorki-Poo of young Amanda Parsons, a sweet 5 year old Blonde girl whose parents built an empire on selling sub-prime mortgages to illegal immigrants from Luxemburg.
A state wide day of morning is declared in California for "Mr Bisquit," the Yorki-Poo who now symbolises socialised public transits dangerous evils.
I wish for a pollen canon named Polly, that's pulled by a pack of pachyderms painted purple!
Not explicitly a friend of gungrave, per se. Bah, who am I kidding!! We're Bros!!!!
By FowlerFox 
I wish for a pollen canon named Polly, that's pulled by a pack of pachyderms painted purple!
Granted! You're riding the back of your purple-pollen-cannon, pulled by an army of pigs, warthogs, the odd elephant couple, firing at every passerby which sends them into a seasonal-allergy sneezing fits and itch-induced seizures. Their agony is terrific. Their cries of anguish, wondrous.
Whilst being pulled by these creatures at an awesome speed, you hit a bump and are ejected from the cannon seat. The cannon misfires, hitting the elephants who begin sneezing. This frightens the other pachyderms, whom you land in the midst of. The warthogs attack, slashing great rends in your flesh. The pigs turn on you, and start eating your limbs as you slip into shock. The elephant sits on your face, sneezes, and sharts.
By Kramer 
I wish for something way way better thsn socialist president
A religious zealot is voted into office by right-in, her vision being to create a heaven-on-earth. She disbands the military, replaces the constitution with the 10 commandments, enacts laws demanding citizens stone everyone who is found to not be a pseudo-christian, and crucifies anyone who doesn't follow.
China invades, taking over the defenseless country with ease. Everyone praises China for coming to their rescue from the tyrannical rule of this mad president. Taxes raise to insane levels across the board, as China attempts to its recoup losses from the investing trillions of dollars in the American Economy, sending the country into the greatest depression known in history. You're standing in line at the community soup kitchen hoping it's not cabbage soup again.
I wish for gladiator-style entertainment, sending death row prisoners, and volunteers, to an island to fight to the death under varying circumstances.
To make this more challenging there are no sharp objects on this island and the hands of the contestants are taped and bound.
The island is contained in a large bubble. Muzak and nitrous oxide are constantly piped in. Tofu is readily available to keep the athletes strong (and given a little blast of estrogen).
The competition is aired live and usually found in the high ranging channels of cable/satellite television but nobody watches anymore.
The contestants would have had a quicker death had they stayed on death row, now it's more like watching Big Brother where they end up making alliances and work together team building.
Pillow fight anyone?
I wish for a good stiff cup of coffee without the bitterness and regret.
Granted. The world economy fails and hyper inflation runs amok and countries dumbly print out a ton of currency to pay each other back. A cup of tea is now worth £999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999 which you are given one per your wish. Congrats, and may your £999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999,999 biscuits taste good with it.
I wish for the wish I wished for to be rewished as a wish for a friendly, rideable, blue elephant.
Yarr, yer wish be granted! Ye find yerself borne on th' back o' Ganesha, an nae mistakin'.
But avast! What be THIS on th' horizon?!
Ye an yer periwinkle pachyderm be nae match fer a boatload of salty seamen, stout an true! They gut yer heathen mastodon and press ye into service as th' new cabinboy! Buggered wi' a belayin' pin, ye wish ye had wish'd fer somethin' a sight more practical.
I be wishin' fer a proud beauty to help me kiss th' gunner's daughter.
Granted! And staggering from the holds below appears as mighty a splediferous sight as your eyes have ever beheld: DelGirl.
Appearing to stumble into the room in a cloud of estrogen enhanced radiance, DelGirl slowly makes her way towards you, with each steady step magnifying her golden brilliance until, merely feet away from you, her heavenly aura is akin to a second sun. The golden rays fill the ships hold, intensifying in the brine and humidity of the sodden woody confines.
An uncomfortable heat assails your senses, and builds.
DelGirl begins to give you the mother of all pep talks, signing your praise and pushing your esteem to new heights! Yet, you find it increasingly hard to pay attention to the pleasant words held aloft by her dulcet tones. You are uncomfortably warm now, and drenched with perspiration.
The room begins to stir, the walls seemingly bending beneath her heavenly wake, bowing against the magnificence of her splendor as golden beams of greatness begin to press through the ancient oaks of the Good Ship Lollipop, your seabound home and second love.
Banding rippling waves of heat pulse from her being, and while you faintly catch the hint of flattering words of praise, a song of your greatness, a blinding white light and searing pain has gripped your eyes. Your throat is dry and parched, your skin, hot to the touch.
From the corner of your eye you see the gunners daughter collapse against a powder keg in the far corner of the hold, her dress alight, her eyes are lifeless, dead.
A hail of wooden shards and pulpy crew bits explodes around you in a maelstrom of cartilage, iron, smouldering wood and meat, and at it's epicenter, like Venus emerging from the shell, stands the gleefully oblivious DelGirl, enraptured, in full song of your herculean greatness. The ship is obliterated down to the waterline, your blackened husk is among many strewn across the broiling sea while the majestic golden orb of DelGirl, held aloft in bliss and divinity, floats peacefully above the carnage.
As your soul slowly rises from the saline carnage, you feel a spirits hand touch yours, and look to see the gunners daughter, her hand firmly clasped in your own. Your eyes are locked, a beautiful smile of peacefull happiness is the canvas of her visage.
That's when you notice the nostril hair: thick and long and befowled by mucuscal cake. Small mites and creatures pass from nostril to nostril, a gang plank of cuticle horror bridging the spanse of her nasal passage, trailing down and dancing on her glistening upper lip.
"Oh Halibut, my sweet," you mutter, "you've got something in your nose. Actually, maybe everything in your nose. Would you like my kerchief??"
"YOU BASTARD!!!!!!!" she cries, and vanishes.
I wish for a cloud car, and all the rights and privileges that go with it.
I could only find a stripped late model cloud car. The navigational display has been corroded and the 8-track player is inoperable.
A fresh coat of paint and some new windows...this baby will make a good static display for the neighborhood kids and vandals to have their way with.
A new dawn, it's a new day, and you hop out of bed with a song in your heart, and a fair bit of crust in the corner of your eyes.
Whistling a happy tune you stride out into the hall toward the kitchen, the morning's sunshine lighting your path through cloudless skies and open windows. You feel like a model strutting down the runway, and everything today already seems a little... different.
You notice that the tops of the picture frames lining your hall are a bit dusty,
"Cripes, I've gotta dust once in a while..."
Your morning proceeds as per usual, but maybe with a slightly rosier disposition: you feel GREAT!
You're all dressed to tackle the day, and thanks to a hearty breakfast you're almost starting to wake up as you slide on your shoes.
Well, as you attempt to slide on your shoes.
For some reason, your shoes laces seem all messed up, like someone's yanked them super tight.
You pull out the laces, re tie them, and once more try to slide on your favourite kicks so you can get on with your day. Problem is, they don't seem to fit?
It's only now tat you notice your feet. To say they look a bit different might be putting it mildly:
The 1/2" thick callouses the protrude from the bottom of your soles are shocking enough, but it's the 1/2" thick toenails and 1/2" thick coarse black hairs busheled atop your feet that truly horrifies you. They look less like hairs and more like licorice.
It's only know as you plod in a little path up an down the hall that you hear the clicking of your toenails against the hardwood floor, and immediately reminds you of the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park. Your roommate walks out into the hall to investigate the clatter.
"Holy hot mother of gawd, what's with your troll feet! Those are Hideous!" a small handful of bile escapes with his final words.
An unknown rage seizes you, and your feet kick out in front of you like as an ungodly skreech hurls from your throat!
Your talon like toes rip out his throat. Your meaty roommate, nearly headless, certainly lifeless, drops to the floor with a thud.
You begin to preen his viscera from your toes, then tuck your face under your arm, and sleep.
This genie admittedly started on your wish when it was wished but circumstances have come between your wish and my ability to grant it properly other than to admit to you why it's taken this much time to grant it.
You see, I've been in a 11 step program due to my candy and treat addiction. I finally made it to the 9th step: Admit Powerlessness...again, it's always hard to get back used to the ball gags.
Back to the story, you see, years ago I met candy and her companion for the evening, treat. I happened to be picking up a bottle of wine and thought the 3 of us could easily make it an evening and we left the store together, headed for home.
I made dinner and we settled in the living room with the wine. What a night!
I woke up the next morning with a headache and stumbled upon what was left of candy and treat. I ate them both, I knew that must've been what happened when I saw their wrappers crumpled up on the living room floor.
I entered rehab the very next day and started my progress in the 11 step program. Thanks to you, I'm back to step 1...No really, thank you.
I wish that Robin Leach stood outside of my house and announced my entry/departure.
A late night of dancing and drinking, reaching for the stars and hopping the bars draws to an end, as you and your friends exit a cab to the entrance of your palatial estate. You tip the cabbie and all begin the long hike through the gate, up the drive, towards home, where the part to a lesser extent, will continue until dawn and beyond.
In the pale light of the moon you see a tubby and discoloured figure leaning against one of the many Grecian Urns that adorn your driveway. The throaty husky voice gurgles out a few disjointed words, spewing a green mucuscal ooze from his half decomposed mouth. His jaw hangs from one side, his eyes are grey and dead.
"What the fawk is that?" Your girlfriend asks, half alarmed, but mostly tanked.
"Oh christ, that's jsut the zombified corpse of Robin Leach. I swear, at first it was cute, but what a pain in the ass..."
Dragging one leg behind him, his arms shoots out, in his hand a shattered champagne glass, long empty, is firmly clutched in his tubbby but rotting fist: