Let's pretend for a second that the time machine from Napoleon Dynamite actually worked--his problem being that he didn't endure the pain for long enough. You've purchased this device off the Internet and it will work, but only twice: once to bring you back or forward in time, and once to return you to the present. As evidenced in the movie, however, the device causes 'significant groin trauma.' Would you be brave enough to use this device and where would you go with it?
... that two people were instrumental in my joining Twitter. First, Isha . She sent out an article on it when the application was still brand new. (And I remember thinking, "Screw that noise. Like I need more online commitments.) Second was Rebecca . She joined up just a short while ago, claiming she hadn't met a bandwidth she didn't like . (And then she disappeared entirely from the internets .) It looked nice and pretty over there on her sidebar, and then I got a little jealous. The rest: history. And for those unobservant among you ( Jorge ), the Twitter feed is right there on my sidebar, replacing the old Radio 3 player that I loved, but that I think scared the bejezus out of a lot of people. Also, everyone should join Twitter. I'm needing some diversions , people.
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I would be able to suffer the first bout of trauma by using my considerable mental powers to channel all of my pain into your groin.
I already gave birth to achieve that.
I don't need anymore.
Even if I could go forward in time to seduce the offspring of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. Regardless of gender.
That kid is going to be smokin' HOT.
I don't know. It's asinine to think of stealing a great deal of money, or checking out a stack of technical manuals from the library, or some such chicanery, and escaping to the past; the past is a foreign country, and one would be a suspicious and half-cracked stranger, at best, and, at worst, a dangerous lunatic providing food and lodging for a gaggle of devils. And the future is worse, because you can't take anything of value with you (or, if you can, it's only because things didn't go as planned and the men of tomorrow have gone back to throwing their ordure out the second-storey window facing the street), and in any case you don't even get a Baedeker when you go forward.
All that having been said, however, I'm still not wooden enough to decide to visit my younger self and deliver the pearls of invaluable wisdom I have stored up over the long years, guaranteeing myself a serene adolescence and a willingness to stop and smell the horseshit along the long and winding...
Fuck it. I'd liquidate everything and buy a rifle and a few bars of silver, learn by rote early gunpowder-manufacturing techniques, grab a few books on basic steam engine design, distilling, papermaking, and chemical engineering, together with a copy of Plutarch and a Wheelock's Latin and head back to central Italy around 55 BC, turn myself into an industrial magnate, not omitting to remind Caesar about the Ides of March, get myself posted to the governorship of Syria, drive south-east into Mesopotamia, and strike oil. Following the development of which resource, I would retire to a villa in Campania, staffed by a few dozen young and slender slaves.
Or something.
I'd have to go back in time to stop you, Bill.
And my groin thanks me.