Friday, 14 March 2008

time travel

time travel

21st century boring you?
Want a way to walk with dinosaurs that isn’t sitting really close to the TV to watch an unrealistic 3D diplodocus eat leaves?
You need a holiday in time, or dinoworld

Tick, tick, tick… tick
1.5 million years since fire was lit, 35,000 years after the birth of art, 16,000 years from the first mappings of stars and 600 years since the blueprints of the helicopter were drawn. We sit here thinking, “Y’know the 21st century could have been a bit more, well. Silvery.” Aside from those metal toasters that’ll burn a farmyard animal into your bread and those credit cards with one of the corners cut off a bit. The 21st century has had:

No proper Robots. My house isn’t doing stuff for me when I go to work so when I get back it’s like a new house and the kitchens in the bathroom. Cars and skateboards don’t hover. We can’t holiday in space and the so called information super highway is still not bypassing my brain with an LCD screen in my eye and USB ports in my tippy toes.

AHHhhhh, yet as a time traveller you can go to the future where these things should have occurred with a few other things that you probably didn’t think about; like a chocolate bar called waffpinuts. A wafer, pineapple and nuts bar wrapped in Kevlar.

Then, go back in time to tell all those people on Tomorrows World that hoodwinked our innocent child eyes, “Hey hey, perm-head, that ain't going to happen you pre-foetus futurist fuck.”
And they’d have to believe your aggressive preaching cos you’d bring an almanac from 2008 with all the sports results and next weeks Eastenders from UK-GOLD, so there.

The Time machine
"This only is denied to God: the power to undo the past." Aristotle (448 BC - 400 BC). Glad we’re not God, the dick.

Deloreans, Police phone boxes, American phone boxes, Quantum Leap Accelerators, Wormholes, Time portals, Time tunnels, Stargates and Cryogenics aside you need to build your time machine in something very now. Sedgeways, I phone's, Airbus 303’s and Wii’s are just that, but seem to lack a certain kook. We recommend you build your time machine inside the 3D extravaganza but transparently shit film Beowulf.

Basically making the thing is a doddle.

Arrange two wormholes many times the mass of our sun into close connectivity to the eight stars the daily star reviewed film Beowulf rightfully received.


Simply construct a cylinder about 100 km long and about 10 km across, made of material compressed to just over the density of a neutron star, and rotating twice every millisecond.


get a cup of tea placed on top a DVD player of the vast film, Beowulf and jump into the TV screen. Zap-tastic, a time machine! People on the Internet have so much knowledge. You know I bet they get cock mauled on the way to the oversize Hawaiian shirt store.

Stuff that
Alternatively, become an important figure in history and the time machine will come to you. You need to be pretty important like the guy who built the Spectrum, Clive Sinclair won’t get a visit or the actual Captain Birdseye who invented a way to preserve food sounds far too fucking boring to even listen about him, look your getting bored of even a past reference to him, yawn pigging borr-rad.

On TV Shakespeare gets a knock every five minutes, which makes me suspicious of just how many plays he did write and how many he just copied from one of the many time traveller’s GCSE English textbooks. So, inventing a language, being a despicably amazing musician or a timeless iconic celebrity are the laziest ways to time travel.

Now as a time traveller you can either stand out like Technicolor Cobains, Bill and Ted or blend in like Quantum Leap’s Sam (I’ll just leap into a retarded kid so I can act all slow and try and actually fuck my mum) Beckett. It’s a given you can get away with travelling to the eighties and know one will suspect those Nikes are reissues and that tops from Ryan’s Vintage.

Other time periods are a bit more difficult and require a full-bodied latex silver suit that emphasises no thought in the time period’s fashion and persistently highlights a mild arousal. This will guarantee kudos with blind and eccentric homosexuals. When not soliciting sex with your wardrobe combine it with a bravado Brando would skirt from. This‘ll give every poor sole that spots you the brainwashed thought you possess mystical powers. That in an instant you can transform that baco foiled eye offence into a pixelated gold Angelina Jolie that can transfix any man with a Nordic crown or a rasp akin to, genuine 100%, no shit, rock hard man, Ray Winston.

Where to go?
Err, the future. I don’t think anyone with a time machine’s maiden voyage is going to think, “ Out of all the time periods it’d have to be the dark ages, pissy mead and warts, fuck yeah! ” Actually if you do say ‘fuck yeah’ then actually go and stay in the dark ages moronically chanting; mead bong, mead bong. Seeing development of our species is man’s desire. Plus in the future they probably have weird sex using orifices you never thought existed. Don’t go too far in the future though, we don’t want any conviction on the grounds that:

“It seemed like that was the usual hole to fuck oops sorry, intercourse someone your honour”

“Mr Primark, do you take money out of women’s vaginas often? Have you never used a speakable ATM? You know your are not allowed that in our futuristic type court room with lights made out of hovering glow balls”

“sorry your honour, it’s the suit”

That and you are going down for ten years, soft labour at seaside prison”

“hmmm, ok”

I reckon those futuristic prisons will almost definitely have you mining for tampon bio-fuels in Skegness with the type of criminal that use you as a toilet and you know Scratcher McBalls doesn’t care about dribbling on the rim.

Fucking with things
As we’ve seen in literature and films interacting with oneself might create a paradox. The answer is fuck it. Time is rather uninteresting until you change a bit, or a lot of it. And create what theorists call a ‘multiverse’, sounds fun don’t it. They’re many other terms like the ‘Grand-parent paradox’ that must mean screwing your Gran while she’s up the duff with your mum. Also ‘Cat-in-the-box’ s’all about looking at a cat means it exists and if you don’t and put it in a box, it dies. So steal a box, a cat and finger the Queen. So long as you have an Imax theatre playing the hit film Beowulf you don’t have worry.

Just imagine the look on your best friend’s face when you thieved his only condoms and pre-programmed crazy frog on his stereo before he was suppost to finally get laid, while hiding in his closet, after killing his Dad. Make sure no ‘Biffs’ uses your time machine for their ulterior motives, with the blockbuster extravaganza Beowulf, I don’t think you’ll have a problem.

Reality time, knowing you, you’ll end up pissing someone off with a turn of phrase or a misinterpreted laugh in face. So get a sidekick, at least you can blame them or sleep with them if it all gets a bit sexy. Choose one who has abilities not someone your friends with or this person you quite fancy. Well maybe the person you quite fancy only if they have abilities that might be hopefully, one time at least, just after they shaved, be useful to you.

Are you crazy? Are you an American? Are yowl ? We assume NASA doesn’t equip its astronauts with guns but with the nature of aggressive paranoia they have, not surprised. Sonic screwdrivers aside, you should definitely carry a pen, to communicate with our un evolved ancestors, and if anything does turn ugly, with a pen you can kill someone in three places or have a scribble off, fact.

If you come into contact with anything carrying a weapon. You must act as though they have just called your sidekick Dallas Debbie a whore after receiving relief from her, like Dallas Debbie does that. Begin to shout passionately about sanctuary of 21st century monogamous relationships while simultaniously hand miming every numerous oral and penetrative sex techniques your proficient in, in perfect sync to Debbie’s booby bongo version of ‘working for a living.‘ You won’t get no shit after that unless Debbie’s into skat.

Time after time
Cyndi Lauper's song, you will eventually vanish into obscurity regardless of how bright your clothes get or irritatingly loud you scream notes. Conceding like Cyndi lauper has, to living on the streets of Victorian England with lice and rat faced and bodied friends, eating stale bread and being soliicitated for sex with a selection of warning photograph herpes sufferers waiting for the carbon dioxide soaked air to mute her out. Her last prayer being for a wooden coffin as opposed to the rotting filthy ally God's unlistened prayer leaves her.

See if we were only able to live in the 10th dimension; with all the possible branches for all the possible timelines of all the possible universes compacted into a single point, it’d be much easier. Like taking your pterodactyl to the Milky Way shop for Malteasers and getting change in orgasms.

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