“What contract?” I asked, pretty sure that I had signed nothing since that last disastrous time I did that when my whole family had been taken off into slavery and I was left with the dishes.
“The one you signed when you rubbed the lamp,” replied the genie, eyes twinkling with infernal glee.
“You have got to be kidding me – how can rubbing a lamp in any way constitute a binding agreement on my part??”
The genie chortled, clearly delighted with himself: “Those are the rules, as you should well know, since they are inscribed on the underside of the lamp, and according to sub-clause 12.2 it is the responsibility of you, the bearer of the lamp, to read the terms of the contract before embarking on any rubbing of said lamp, and furthermore under clause 32 that only one wish may be granted by myself, the dweller of the lamp, referred to as “the genie” henceforth, and any attempt to wish for further wishes …”
“Oh, I wish you’d just shut up!”
“Certainly, Master, your wish is my command,” replied the genie as he and the lamp disappeared in a puff of red tape.
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