Bill Gates was strolling along the private beach of his luxurious seaside villa, thinking of nothing in particular—perhaps just wondering whether he left the yacht on “eco mode,” or if he really needed a seventh smartwatch.
Suddenly, he spotted something strange glinting in the sunlight. No, it wasn’t another paparazzi drone—it was an old, dusty bottle, rolling in with the tide like it had a story to tell and a tax break to claim.
Naturally, Bill picked it up. He was curious—and besides, it looked vintage. Maybe it was an NFT in disguise?
He wiped the bottle off with his ultra-soft, monogrammed beach towel and popped the cork.
POOF!
Out shot a cloud of blue smoke, and a genie appeared. Not a sleek, modern genie—this one looked like he just woke up from a thousand-year nap and wasn’t thrilled about it.
“Who dares awaken me from my 1,000-year slumber?” the genie boomed.
Bill blinked. “Hi, I’m Bill. Gates.”
The genie stopped mid-sentence. “Wait, the Bill Gates?”
“Uh-huh.”
The genie looked around nervously. “Oh great. My first wish after a millennium, and I get someone who already has everything. What do you even want? A bigger yacht? A self-cleaning smart fridge that can talk to your houseplants?”
Bill chuckled. “Honestly, I’m just here for the walk. But I guess you do owe me a few wishes now.”
The genie sighed. “Fine. Three wishes, as per tradition. But try not to make it too complicated. The last guy asked to ‘become one with the universe’ and now he’s a tree in Central Park.”
Bill scratched his head. “Alright. First wish: I want every child in the world to have access to quality education.”
The genie blinked. “Wow. That’s… noble.”
“I’m known for that,” Bill said, modestly brushing sand off his smartwatch. “Second wish: Let’s eliminate malaria.”
The genie nodded, impressed. “Done and done. I should’ve guessed you’d go all philanthropic. What about your third wish? Something for yourself maybe?”
Bill thought for a moment, then said, “Alright. I want to finally understand how printer ink pricing works.”
The genie gasped. “That… that’s dark magic. Even I don’t touch that.”
Bill frowned. “Really? You can bend time and space but not explain a cartridge refill?”
“Look,” said the genie, “even the ancient scrolls feared the realm of office supply economics. I’d rather turn myself back into smoke.”
“Well,” Bill shrugged, “worth a shot. Okay, new third wish: surprise me.”
The genie’s eyes twinkled. “Surprise you? You’re sure?”
Bill nodded.
There was a poof, a sparkle, and suddenly Bill was standing on the beach… in a Walmart polo shirt, holding a name tag that read “Hi, I’m Bill—Ask Me About Savings!”
“WHAT IS THIS?!” he shouted.
The genie grinned. “Congratulations! For one day, you’ll experience true humility—and rollback prices. I call it ‘Billionaire Empathy Training.’”
Bill panicked. “Do I still own Microsoft?”
“Nope. Right now you own exactly one set of khakis, a breakroom mug, and a 12-minute lunch.”
Bill took a deep breath. “Okay. Fine. When does this end?”
“Close of business. Unless Gary from Aisle 6 calls in sick again—then you’re doing the late shift.”
The genie vanished in a puff of smoke, laughing.
And somewhere, on a beach far away, Jeff Bezos picked up a suspicious-looking bottle.
