Types of Time Travel

Found this floating about. Seems about right to me.

McKay Captain McVey

Answers About Time Travel

While science fiction is often less “science” than “fiction”, one puzzle that has baffled authors, philosophers and physicists is that of time travel. Is it possible? If so, can you change the past? If either of those questions leads to a “no”, why not? And either way, what are the implications and how could we know?

While I haven’t spent much—read “any”—time working at an advanced particle accelerator, and have yet to publish my very own science fiction, I have studied time travel extensively from a philosophical point of view. And while I don’t claim to have a definitive answer, I can illuminate on what those answers should address. Through the course of this paper I will show what considerations need to be solved in order to answer these questions, what possible and likely answers would be, and what implications could be inferred from those likely…

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Echo: Charlie 1.1

black

ANNOUNCER (VO)

…introducing the Grubber 3 by Grub-o-Matic, America’s number one name in food printing!

We see white and the camera pans, bringing into view a machine the size of a refrigerator with a deli counter window built into the front. The box is black. It’s sexy. So’s the MODEL waving an elegant hand toward the machine.

ANNOUNCER (VO CONT’D)

With our new 360 design, you’ll get all the features you’ve been waiting for!

Hamburgers? Check!

(a hamburger appears in the model’s hand)

Pizza? Check!

(the hamburger morphs into a pizza slice)

Chinese food? Check!

(a bowl of noodles takes the slice’s place)

The food disappears as the Model shoves the bowl toward her face. A satisfied smile crosses her lips as she mouths the announcer’s words.

ANNOUNCER (VO CONT’D)

Yum!

black

(next)

Static 1.1

Roommates.com, Roomster, Craigslist; Mercer Hekel had tried them all. He met with evangelicals who harbored ill will toward “libtards,” a couple of “straight guys” who wanted a roommate who was “okay with nudity,” and a recovering meth addict nurse who was just trying to get her shit together. Her twenty three year old daughter shared her bedroom so that they could fit a fifth person into their three bedroom house.

And then there was Sandy. She was witty and perked up at the sound of his stable job. He was a few years older than she was thinking; she was twenty eight, her roommate twenty nine and a half, but thirty five wasn’t “too too old, so, sure! Let’s get together and make sure we’re not serial killers or walking clichés!”

*

Mercer was surprised at how much space they weren’t using. He was prepared for the tiny bedroom, but the unfinished basement was huge, and the only things down there were a mattress and some camping equipment.

“All of this would be yours,” Sandy told him.

“I dig it,” Mercer replied, stifling his awe. He admired the yard from the glass door in the back corner. “It’s $450?” he asked.

“Yeah, sorry. I was going to say $400, but-“

“$450’s fine,” he assured her.

They made their way upstairs, through the fireplaced living room, past the piano, the couch, past a cat, and into the garage, where Mercer found himself astonished by a recliner and loveseat.

“This is awesome,” he said matter-of-factly.

“We like to sit,” Sandy nodded. “You can have the chair if you want,” she offered. “I usually sit over here.”

“Is that, uh,” Mercer began and drew a blank on the other roommate’s name.

“David’s chair? Yeah,” Sandy filled in.

“Right,” Mercer said with a snap.

“No worries,” she said. “He should be home soon. He’s an engineer. Designs skyscrapers or something.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” Mercer said, taking the chair with a controlled plop.

“Yeah. You sell mattresses, right?” she asked.

“Yep.” Mercer nods. “I manage the Home Towne Mattress on 56th.

“Oh, that’s right,” Sandy said. “That’s not too far a drive, is it?”

“Nah,” Mercer said. “That’s the first thing I checked when I saw your ad.”

“Nice,” Sandy said.

“Yeah, it only adds about ten minutes with traffic.”

“That’s not too bad,” Sandy said.

*

It went on like that for nearly forty minutes, the two of them trading information and telling all the superficial get-to-know-you anecdotes that everyone has hidden away for such occasions. David and Sandy had met in college. David’s job wasn’t really as fancy as it sounded. Sandy’s job as tech support wasn’t interesting enough to go into. Mercer hated cucumbers. The usual.

And then…

“So, uh,” Sandy asks, “I did ask you if you smoke, right?”

Mercer looked at the cigarette in his hand.

“Yeah?” he intoned.

“No, like, smoke,” she said and pointed at the bowl on the side table.

“Oh,” Mercer responded. “I can’t believe I missed that.”

She laughed.

“Must be used to it,” he said.

She grinned, “Good.”

She opened the table drawer, and a sack of bud came out to say hello. She packed the bowl and handed it to him.

“You’re so generous,” Mercer said.

“You’re welcome.”

He sparked the grass, took only half the green hit, and passed it back while holding his breath.

“Manners!” Sandy exclaimed before taking her puff.

He exhaled.

“I like that,” she croaked, passing it back.

They fell into the rhythm of smoking. There was a good vibe set, and a comfortably tense silence washed over them.

*

“Is this the guy?” David asked a few minutes later. He carried a cheap lager and gestured an offer to Mercer.

Mercer waved it off graciously. Sandy nodded, lighting a cigarette.

“You gonna introduce us, weirdo?” David asked Sandy impatiently. His look asked Mercer if he could believe what was happening.

“I’m so glad,” Sandy said to Mercer, “that someone finally gets to see the kind of abuse I put up with.”

“Abuse?” David said, offended. “Fucking abuse, she says!”

“You heard me,” Sandy shot back. And then to them both, “Mercer, Davey, Davey this is our new roommate, Mercer.”

“Don’t call me Davey.”

Mercer’s laugh broke their bit, and they all shared a chuckle.

“What’s up man, I’m David.” He stressed the second syllable.

“Mercer. Nice to meet you.”

They went for the same type of handshake. A good sign.

“New roommate, huh?” David asked and pulled a lawn chair from seemingly nowhere.

“I just decided,” Sandy said.

“Nice,” Mercer said.

David laughed, “Well, I guess you’re in, man. Congrats.”

He took his seat.

“Now you can tell me about yourself.”

*

It was all the same information, but this time, Sandy took her turn when Mercer skipped something. They soon dug deeper and began sharing self-deprecating stories.

“I survived falling out of the raft in category four rapids, I hiked all the way to the top of the waterfall and jumped off, and then I sprained my ankle getting into the truck to come home!”

Sandy was red-faced as she spoke, and the guys were breathless.

“How?” Mercer managed to ask.

“I don’t know!” Sandy gasped.

And later, “I thought it was spinach dip or something,” David said. “That’s what it tasted like.”

“It was cheese dip from, like, six months earlier!” Sandy exclaimed.

“It was green,” David winced and Mercer gagged.

Mercer jumped in to move the subject to something less revolting. Sort of.

“We used to go camping a lot when I was a kid. I thought I was a daredevil, and I’d take these great big running leaps over the fire pit.”

The others were already cringing.

“And then one day my foot got caught in the grill.” He sighed. “Down I went.”

“Ouch!” David cried. Sandy was covering her eyes, trying to block the mental image of seared flesh.

“I still have some scars from it,” Mercer concluded, pointing at his leg. “After that,” he said, “Dad moved us away from the mountains, and we went to the beach instead.”

“Probably safer,” Sandy said.

Mercer shook his head. “Not really.”

 

 

To be continued…

Micro

A prompt response.

I knew a guy who microdosed LSD. He worked at that pizza place on Waters, you know? That gourmet take-home place? He was the guy tossing the pie in the oven.

His name was Cuz. At least, that’s what everyone called him. I never bothered to ask why. I was too busy listening to him wax poetic on topics of the soul.

Okay, his doses may not have been “micro”. But that pizza was fire, man, I’m telling you.

Anyway, one night he says to me, “Cuz,” he says, “you know they’re coming, right?”

I’m like, “Who?”

“The aliens, cuz. You know who I’m talking about.”

“Nah, dude. You said aliens?”

“Yeah,” he clarified, and then he pointed. “You know, cuz. You one of them.”

I laughed, because, I mean, what else are you supposed to do, right?

“You one of those time travelers, cuz.”

I laughed again, confused. “I’m a time traveling alien?”

“No, cuz,” he said. “Aliens are just us from the future.”

Inefficient

a prompt response

I have it all right here with me: every word of the story waiting to be yanked out of the ether and transformed into the easily consumable media to which we’ve all grown accustomed. I wouldn’t be sitting here wasting my time if there was actual work to do.

I’m good at the actual work.

Yeah, it’s all done: this hobbyhorse is shod and tacked. It’s ready to be ridden across the open range of someone else’s imagination. But my laziness – an orange-eyed monster whose skin fits me so well – he keeps convincing me that there’s something else to do, that the sequence starts earlier, that I should sit still and wait. The answers will come to me.

We all know this isn’t true. At the very least, it’s an inefficient way to live a life worth reading.

LOSE WEIGHT FAST – 1 weird trick they don’t want you to know.

Are you tired of fad diets that claim to help you shed lbs with things like “eating well” and “exercising”?

With this one weird trick, your worries are over!

Now introducing

TIME TRAVEL®

For as little as 4 easy payments of $314,159.26, we’ll send you into the future (YES! The FUTURE) to our facilities at SUNTECH LABS where you will receive the cutting edge weightloss treatment: CLONE-AWAY!

We’ll sedate you, use our space aged alien technology to make you anew, and we’re able to have you home by dinner!*

AND THAT’S NOT ALL!

For a limited time,

FREE** RETURN TRIP

ACT NOW!

*Suntech Labs cannot guarantee which dinner

**Free Return Trip (market value $5.3 mil) for qualified individuals being sold into slavery to our alien overlords for a period of no more than 589 years (anti-aging included!)

The Correct Way to Hold a Spatula

The Correct Way to Hold a Spatula: A How-to for Both Professional Cookers and the Not, This is Easy to be Reading Text and Shall Have Instructed Your Hands on Their Journeyment Through to the Flapping of Fewer Jacks if You Should So Desire.

 

Firstly and mostly, there is a rumor out floating abound that means you should have been holding a spatula with an upturned fist, like so.

[insert bad_illustration.jpg]

Well, my friendly miser, I tell you that this is incorrectly done as such. It is to be pinching with the floodle – that’s the name of the handle – pinch it in between your middle and ringer fingers, see?

[insert illustration.jpg]

and then you should be wrapping your hand around that floodle – say it with me now: Floodle. Floodle. Good. – wrap those hands around in both of each of the directions.

[insert illustration2.jpg]

Close up that gappy with your thumb there, and you’re in busy bees. You’ll be scraping dinner from the ceiling in no time half.

[insert hecklesyeah.mp4]

Now that you have to be getting yourself firmly comfortable with our patented Spatulator grip, I will tell you how to be going about making the pansnakes. Did my mouth say snakes? I must be halving a stroke, my crumple mix-em-ups. I floundered countless gravy while crowdfunding my last disaster.

[insert illustration3.jpg]

Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

[insert illustration3.1.jpg]

Wow, you’re doing great!

[insert illustration3.2.jpg]

That golden beauty could be on the frontish cover of Spatularata Magazine!

[insert illustration3.3.jpg]

Twice! Twice, can you believe it!

[insert illustration71.jpg]

Wow. Just Wow.

[insert smilingiraffe.gif]

Already, my hangled bambler, you should have been completing this disher several minutes prior. Hopefulating that you’ve learned something today, and as always, Conflatulatory gracious in the grand Spatulutions, and this does do not have representatives of Spatulica Inc. LLC ABC. All Rights Reserved Inagodadavita.

 

Good some day,

The Hofflebrock.