Chickenhead, March 22, 2001
Ben went walking through the woods, searching for the Hustler magazines he kept buried there when he was a child. Along his route, he came upon a bottle. It was a dirty, empty Budweiser bottle. As he flicked some of the ants off of it, the bottle started shaking, and smoke came out of it.
Suddenly before him was a big, muscular, blue man screaming that he is a genie and that Ben freed him from the bottle.
“My good fellow,” the genie said. “If you could be stranded on a desert island with anyone in the world, who would you choose?”
“Dead or alive?”
“Well, sure, but why would you want to be on an island with only a dead body?”
Ben thought about it for a moment. “Well, Mr. Genie, for as long as I can remember, I’ve had a thing for Melissa Reeves.”
“Uh, who?” the genie asked.
“She’s a soap opera actress. When I was little, and home sick from school with pneumonia for two weeks, my mother got me hooked on ‘Day of Our Lives.”
She played Jennifer Horton, later to be Jennifer Horton Deveraux.
"No, Melissa Reeves! Of course, back then she was Melissa Brennan. I was completely in love with her, and was quite depressed when she left the show when I was in college. Now, wonderfully, she’s back, and…”
“All right, all right,” the genie interrupted. “I didn’t ask for your life story. Poof. Off you go.”
“Wait a minute,” Ben objected as the genie zapped him to his dream place.
The next thing he knew, he was on a desert island. “Hey! Hey, genie!” he screamed. “I thought we were talking hypothetically! Get me out of here, you blue bastard!”
He sat in the sand, unbelieving of what had happened to him. His mother told him pornography would ruin his life. He heard footsteps coming from behind him. He turned around and saw her. It was Melissa Reeves, and she didn’t look very happy.
“What is this? How did I get here? Who are you? What the hell is going on?” she screamed.
“Um, hi Ms. Reeves,” Ben said. “I’m Ben. I’m a big fan.”
“Oh, well, everything’s all right, then. I have a fan. What are we doing on this frigging island?”
“I kind of, accidentally, unknowingly made a wish.”
“You made a wish? What are you, three? That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard. I’m supposed to be on the set right now. I’m voting you off this island, pervert. Don’t you have two more wishes?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, summon Barbara Eden, or whoever, and wish for a magic carpet or something to get us out of here.”
“Oh, g-genie,” Ben said. “Can I have my other wishes?”
“You watch too much television or have heard too many jokes,” the genie called down. “That’s it, Gilligan. You only get one wish.”
“But I never actually said ‘I wish,’ did I? That must make this wish invalid, right?”
“Who are you Ally McBeal? I’m the boss here. My rules. I am the law. And stop crying. This is what you wanted. You’re with your dream woman.”
“It’s not exactly consensual.”
“Look, why don’t you go write for David E. Kelley, if you know so much about the law?”
And that was it. The genie left and never came back. Ben and Melissa spent the rest of their lives on that island. They came to love and depend on each other. They even had five children, which was perfect, years later, when the Harlem Globetrotters arrived.