A guy finds an old lamp and rubs it. Of course a genie appears and grants the guy three wishes.

so an american goes to dublin on vacation, and he's a real hard, southern farmer type, right? name's Sharps McGraw, type of fella who wouldn't look out of place as an extra in a clint eastwood film, type of fella who's probably helped birth more calves and foals than you've had hot meals. now he's not up to being ripped off at all these inner-city, tourist trap bars, so he goes out to the outskirts of dublin to find a real, rough-and-tumble irish pub to patronise. he walks into a place called Finn MacCool's, after the old folk hero, and sure enough it's the exact sort of gritty, down-to-earth place he's looking for; a sticky bar top, a bunch of old-timers sat around wiling away the hours with their drinks, there's even a bloke with an overcoat and a scruffy dog trying to sell some cheap stakes that fell off the back of a truck. so Sharps takes a stool up at the bar, orders a pint of Guinness, and says to the publican, "So I hear you Irish folk are supposed to be real good drinkers, right? Heartiest in the world. Well, I'd much like to test that, so if it's true for myself. Ya see, back on the stead, we drink whiskey faster than we can refill the bathtub, and we still go about our day working the farm." he turns over his shoulder, calls out to the whole bar, "I will bet 100 american dollars against any man in this fine establishment who thinks they can drink 20 pints of Guinness faster than myself!" The hubbub of the bar quietens down a little. Sharps looks around, sees a few of the patrons trying to avoid his gaze. He even sees one man get up, and hurry away out the door. Sharps chuckles to himself, shaking his head as he goes back to his drink. About 15 minutes later, the man who left comes back in, slowly walks up to Sharps, and mutters in his fine brogue, "Say, fella, is that bet still up for grabs?" Sharps gives a confident grin to the surprise challenger, assuring him it certainly is. he calls for 40 pints of Guinness, laid out in 2 sets all across the length of the bar, and the men start at either end. they get the barman to start a countdown, and as soon as he hits zero, both men immediately grab their first glass. now Sharps McGraw is in no way a stranger to alcohol. he had his first taste when his gramgram mixed some brandy in with his milk to get him to sleep. he goes through liquor like a fish through water, he thinks. well, once Sharps is done with his 5th pint, he risks a glance up, only to see the irishman already starting his 10th. Sharps narrows his eyes, redoubling his effort, swigging each glass down as fast as his gullet can work, whilst trying to keep it all firmly settled in his gut. but by the time he finishes his 10th pint, he hears a heavy slam of glass against wood, looking up to see the irishman with 20 empty glasses in front of him. Sharps shakes his head in disbelief, sitting defeated back on his stool. "I don't know how in the hell you did that, but I'm not a sore loser, I'm not a liar, and I'm certainly no cheat. I stick to my word." and, true to his word, Sharps pulls out his wallet, fishes out a crisp 100 dollar bill, and slides it over to him. the irishman is fairly uninterested, inspecting the note for a moment before shoving it into his pocket. despite accepting his loss, there's one thing still running curious around Sharps' head. he shifts his stool closer to the irishman, nudging him with an elbow. "...Now, it's clear to me that you always had me beat, there. So I gotta ask, why did you leave the bar earlier? I'd thought that my challenge was so daunting, I'd managed to scare you off!" the irishman looks up, shrugs. "Well, I've already been drinking all day, so I thought I'd best go to the pub down the road for a test run, make sure I was able to drink 20 pints."