Time Travel Rants

by Idaho Chubbs

Highheels are clanking in my mind void right about now. Where is that sound coming from? "The sun is beating down on my baseball cap, the air getting hot my beer is getting flat. Looking for a Britney I ran into a Sloor, his name was "T2000", I said, 'howdy', he said, 'ROAR!' Desperation is creeping slowly right next to my forever fractured rib. What is this broken dream? I can't learn to fly again. ZZZZZZZUUUUUUUUUUULLLLLLLL....who is she/he/it/them/Yahweh/Beelzabub/Chloe Kardashian?---Time machines have no limit unless you can't pay the gas bill. True story, Carl Jung told me so when he taught me how to paint like Egon Schiele. I learned, I yearned, I wept, I cried...Brandon Walsh taught me that. He said Tesla wouldn't create such a device if it were to bring me harm. Tesla was a hack (jk), he was/is my friend, likes Tebows and smokes Chesterfield brain hemorrhages. The best ones are from Hades. One time when I asked T2000 his rushing average for each game in junior high, he said a million..."A million yards a game!?" I said. He said, "Yeah, because I ran a 1.0 40 time." I said, "Why did you go to Bard with that kind of football talent"? He said, " Because I'm a fucking RENAISSANCE MAN Chubbs, Nectar and NCAA Football is not my be." What confuses me is that we have this time machine that has helped us create the galaxy and learn how to play music that encompasses the best qualities of Sonic Youth/Pavement/BURIAL/Taylor Swift meets SUGAR, but it hasn't given ME, Idaho, the ability to go back in time and rush for two TD's, pass for one and intercept a football (while wearing Freezy Feakies) against Wheatley Tech that chilly, luscious 80's early 90's autumn afternoon when I was "13" years old. That Delorean is the C. Bane of my existential existence.