This Time-Travel Shit is Harder Than It Looks


by Joe Buonfiglio

Time Travel.  The stuff of childhood dreams.  Doctor Who cruising back to the Big Bang in a blue police-box from the 1960s.  The USS Enterprise slingshots around the sun to return to its own time.  I turn back the clock to relive that first “real” date in high school, but this time I remember to bring money so that we don’t have to dine-n-dash from the classiest restaurant in town.

It’s not so crazy, the whole time-travel thing.  As I write this here in the 100th anniversary year of Einstein’s general theory of relativity, theoretical physicist Ron Mallett is working on a time machine using lasers to drag neutrons in a manner that bends space much like stirring a glass of water from its middle.  And if you can bend space, you can take time along for the ride.

However, all this time-swirling research is outlandishly expensive and takes too damn long.  You’d need an actual time machine to have enough time to build a time machine that way.  Not only does that defeat the purpose in a rather paradoxical and ironic way, it is utterly unnecessary.

“Why?” you ask while downing your third cheeseburger and wondering if you could travel back to a point in time where you could still see your genitals over your gut.

Because, my corpulent friend, I have already done the work for you.  For you see, last night, I woke up at exactly 11:11 p.m.

“Whoop-dee-freakin’-doo,” you say?

Perhaps I should mention that I also woke up at 12:12 a.m.  And 1:01 a.m.  And 2:02 a.m.  And 3:03, 4:04, 5:05 and at 6:06 a.m. just before the alarm went off.  (God!  Don’t you hate it when that happens?)  Using lasers to twist space and time?  BABY CRAP!  I obviously have an innate ability to bend time with the power of my warped little brain.

Behold the magnificence of my cerebral manipulation of the laws of physics as I now turn my mind into a mental school bus in order to take a field trip back along my own timeline.  I will now concentrate so intensely that I will literally travel back to—

Okay, that’s fucked up.  I shouldn’t have done that.  Wait a minute.  Let me make a couple phone calls.

Yep.  Now my two brothers were never born.  Son of a bitch!  All righty, let’s give that another go, shall we?  Just focus the old brain and trav—

Nope!  Now I have twelve brothers, nine sisters, and I was born without elbows.  Christmases sucked over the years; Santa couldn’t afford to bring us all toys, so we all shared one gift-wrapped basketball when, in my elbowless state, I couldn’t even pick up a cup of hot chocolate and bring it to my mouth let alone shoot freakin’ hoops.  I won’t even mention how badly I’d get my ass beat in snowball fights.

This simply won’t do.  Think.  Think.  Thi—

Three penises.  Uh-huh, that’s right.  I’m a three-dick man now.  How?  Trust me when I tell you that you don’t want to know.  The things that can be done with the headlights from a ’56 Buick, the undergarments from a Medieval Irish monk, an unlimited supply of duct tape, Meat Loaf’s Bat Out of Hell album on 8-track and an unlaundered Walmart greeter’s vest using a wormhole as if some kind of massive cosmic Vitamix blender are simply events that no human being should ever have to experience.  I’ll spare you and your fragile sensibilities the ghastly particulars.  But should ever run into a naked dwarf with Silly String involuntarily shooting out of her ass nonstop looking for me just outside of the British Parliament, tell her you haven’t seen me.  And for Christ’s sake, whatever you do, don’t offer her soup!

Sweet Trojan nightmares, I’ve got three wankers.  I’d say leave well enough alone and join a society that doesn’t frown on polygamy, but my anus is also now in the middle of my forehead.  That ain’t gonna cut it!

And awaaaaaaaaaaaaay we go! —

Let’s see now.  Two brothers?  Check.  Elbows intact; picking up this mug of ice-cold beer with no spillage?  Check.  Downing ice-cold beer because I’m so stressed out about all this?  Check.  Repeating?  Check.  Repeating well into the night…. … … Check.  No diminutive maniacs expelling novelty comedic materials from unmentionable orifices trying to hunt me down?  Check.  One and only one Willy?  Check.  Emotionally distraught over missing my other two Johnsons?  Check and check.

Well, it seems as if all is back to normal.  Let me just take a moment to psychically adjust the picture on my cybernetic Panda’s paunch-screen and set the rotisserie bidet to record, and then we can grab some dinner.  I’m in the mood for Italian tonight.  Let’s teleport to that little nudist bistro on the Venice canals.  I have a two-for-one coupon.  Good for you?




© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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