This post will make one incredibly huge assumption: that I somehow discover the secret to time-travel. Hey, it could happen. OK, now that we’ve made that stretch…
So yeah, I invented a time machine. How does it work, you ask, and what does it run on? First, do you think I’d really tell you how it works? Then you’d just go back in time and invent it before me, thereby reaping the benefits and leaving me destitute and looking for my Doc Brown to fix things. However, I will tell you what my time machine runs on. When I was refining it I thought long and hard about the power source, and decided to use the one thing that the world will never run out of: porn. Yes, my time machine runs on porn. Doesn’t matter what kind, it all works – straight, gay, animal, druid – it’s all fuel. That would also be my excuse for the stack of Playgirl magazines in my garage: they’re fuel for my machine, doncha know.
As everybody should already know, the FIRST rule of time travel is not to go to the past because you might create a paradox and change the entire world, destroying yourself in the process. Fuck that. I’m going back in time to fix a few wrongs, bust some skulls that needs some bustin’. My TM, my rules. The first and most obvious choice is to kill Hitler, but I’m not setting my sights on the big guns like that. Killing Hitler (or his mom, a la Sarah Conner) would have a profound affect on the world and I’m not sure how good the net result would be. No, I’m aiming much lower, and my correction list is as follows:
Kill the first guy or girl who ever typed “LOL.” I know this might be just delaying the inevitable but it’s worth the shot. LOL begat LMAO which begat LMFAO which begat LMGDAO which begat LMGDMFAO which begat hundreds of other substitutes for the period (or full-stop, for the non-existent British readers of my blog). It seems like most sentences in informal communication today end with at least a LOL. Please: stop doing that. Very few things in life are funny enough to make you LOL, much less LOL at just about everything you type. If you crack yourself up that much, you need to seek help. If I crack you up that much, well, then that’s just fine. Don’t tell me I made you LMGDMFAO, just tell me I made you laugh.
Somehow stop the Angels from signing Gary Matthews Jr. This one might also fall in the “beware of unintended consequences” category. If the Angels don’t sign GMJ then they also might not sign Torii hunter the next year to replace him. I hope that’s not the case but I’ll take my chances.
Figure out how to ride a dinosaur. Fuck yeah. Who wouldn’t want to do this? While I’m at it I could have a raptor steak. Mmmm, extinct delicacies…
Advise myself at certain key points in my life. I’d have to do this cleverly disguised as somebody other than myself, although bald-fat-middle-aged-Glen might not need much disguising to hide from mullet-Glen in the 80s. I’d go back and convince myself to take a chance with Peggy, and to lock the fucking door before going to second base with Tina to keep my brother from bursting in the room and ruining the mood. Thanks, Bob, you asshole!
Miscellaneous. And then I’d do the requisite investing in Microsoft, Apple and Sun while they were cheap, and betting on the underdogs that win. I’d also plop myself into the 70s for a bit and ultimately wind up disappointed with how bad the hippies smell and upset that most of the women who believe in free love are kinda repulsive to me. Yeah, I’m uptight. You should already know that.