The worst text message I ever wrote....
.....but didn't send. Even I'm not that much of a prick. Morality aside, it was really too long to text with my fat, stubby sausage fingers...But that didn't stop me from posting it here: Enjoy?
Did I ever tell you how much I hated spending time with you? I was always counting down the minutes till we had sex. Not that sex with you was so great, just that talking to you was so painful. And when I say talking to you, I mean you babble aimlessly about people I don’t know interspersed with the occasional dour complaint that your one friend fatter than you passes off as wit. I actually drink some of your beer when you go to the bathroom. Just so the minimum time spent with you in order for you to delude yourself that you have self-respect before you fuck someone who obviously hates you and with run for the door before even cleaning off the post-coital ooze.
Did I ever tell you how much I hated spending time with you? I was always counting down the minutes till we had sex. Not that sex with you was so great, just that talking to you was so painful. And when I say talking to you, I mean you babble aimlessly about people I don’t know interspersed with the occasional dour complaint that your one friend fatter than you passes off as wit. I actually drink some of your beer when you go to the bathroom. Just so the minimum time spent with you in order for you to delude yourself that you have self-respect before you fuck someone who obviously hates you and with run for the door before even cleaning off the post-coital ooze.
High Speed Dubbing
“I’ve come from the future with a grave warning: it’s pretty much like the present.” No. “Time is an infinite tower of tortoises stacked on top of each other." Douchebag. “Did you ever see that movie “The Butterfly Effect?” Stupid. I have minus 12 years to think of something good.
I had been rehearsing this speech over and over again. I can’t define irony exactly, but this here is some O. Henry shit! I suppose we should start at my funeral. Here goes: I was never really good at life. I never cared for it. I could take it or leave it. I was never suicidal- those guys have balls. My ritual was for pussies. I would sit idly and amplify every neurosis and regret in my head. Then turned out the lights and sit for hours staring into darkness and making shapes in my head. Sometimes I strummed the same three chords over and over again and thought that my musical plateau to be a convenient metaphor.
Usually, I would snap out of my catatonic state and force myself to feel renewed. Armed with a flimsy, happy slogan,“Today will be different,” I said aloud to no one with the brief optimism that a full cup of coffee brings. Invariably they were never different and my flirtations with the human race - sending out resumes, calling an old girlfriend or simply bullshitting with a cab driver - were hopeless to tether me to the world at large. It could take months, sometimes years, sometimes weeks but I would always end up sitting in the dark by myself again hearing those same damn three chords that didn’t express anything but my lack of lessons.
That being said, I functioned well enough as a perfectly bland Director of Marketing Initiatives for a dietary supplement company, a suitable career choice for a man afraid or unwilling to empathize with others. Still, I was bouncing continually from two opposing clichés: “no man is an island” and "hell is other people," which always left me paralyzed in the middle. I stopped and started for years, 76 of them, in fact, outliving everyone I knew through my ironic and accidental good health.
As I remember, my funeral was tasteful, generic and surprisingly well lit. No one I knew very well was there; mostly my cousins who I hadn’t seen in years and their kids. No one really wept since I was by then, a burden of the state and If I could spare one less dirty bedpan to be cleaned by that heavy-set woman at the hospital, that is a better gift than scented candles Possibly a nephew’s kid looked at the clock repeatedly, unaware he's being lied to.
You see, sometime around the age of 37, my days grew so monotonous, so impossible to tell apart, I didn’t realize I had been aging backwards for 39 years. I know you’re thinking that I stumbled on every man’s dream, but aging backwards is every bit as isolating and unremarkable as aging frontward. This is not Benjamin Buttons or Dorian Gray story or even Vice Versa- when Judge Rheinhold and Fred Savage switched bodies. This is real life- my life - one bored me so shitless I couldn’t even tell if it were moving frontward or backward in the first place. And since I was no good at it, with my quality of life getting worse every year anyway - smaller apartment, fatter girlfriend, same job- a second chance at tethering myself to humanity was inherently flawed.
I should note that all backwards time up to this point was buried deep in my subconscious, where it should have stayed till as a curious oaf, I triggered it. When I had my bi-monthly depression ritual of staring into blackness with my guitar in hand, I started to see shapes in the black, then entire scenes. I was hoisted out of the dirt at my funeral, defecating in reverse while a nurse watched and saw the doctor’s expression going from pensive to cordial as the test results were sent back to the orderly. My ritual did indeed induce an epiphany, but it was not what I excepted. I was seeing things that already happened in the future. Confusing, huh?
Also when time moves backwards, it moves faster as you go. Before I could even process this absurdity, I was 28 with a poorly tied tie, nodding off in someone’s frightful power point presentation. I didn’t want to sit through it again, so I tried to kill myself by choking on a Cinnabon, which as luck would have it, was suspiciously moist that day.
Years flew by, people walked in and out, hemorrhoids flared and I arrived at the moment I had been practicing my speech for, the one moment I felt like I wasn’t a machine and I wouldn’t be suffocated by my comforter or dissolve in the shower. I was with Hannah in our spacious apartment. Flawed as our relationship was -we were doomed to bicker like my parents and make scenes at Pier One Imports and such - I arrived thinking i could fix this with my future wisdom. But it was even worse the second time around. The knowledge of how events will play out will crush natural human interaction. Here's how:
She was giddy. I was clingy. She thinks the wedding is three months away. I know it never happens. I detached. I wouldn’t be staying long. Any blissful moments left became cruel and ironic. But most of all, we failed to connect because I couldn’t speak! All my words came out fucking backwards! She thought I was possessed! As a last resort, I tried explaining the entire ordeal speaking backward into a my dual cassette tape recorder with high speed dubbing then playing it back forwards. But I couldn't figure it out. The tape snapped off the spool of the maxell XL-II 90 and I couldn't thread it back together. The tape became more tangled the more I tried to fix it. Finally I tried asking her to reverse reverse cowgirl me and send me forwards in time but it was no use. I could feel my pores clogging and braces tightening as I derped back into adolescence.
Now the years were moving indescribably fast. It reminded me of my inability to water ski – being pulled behind a speedboat, trying to slow momentum with your hands. Like with Hannah, moments of childhood were not the same. Your parents and sports idols can only hold up to the scrutiny of a child.
So, you know how this ends. The cord was attached. I will spare you the details of re-entering my Mom’s vagina. But let’s just say, in the next life I assume I will have a crippling fear of tunnels.
I thought surely, I was finally dead. I was incapable of linear thought, just sensations. I had no body, no soul that I was aware of and at that briefest of moments, I had peace and an sense of fulfillment. I was not dead- just a zygote. I was a perfectly insular community of two, a diploid cell attached contently to my female gamete. This proved to be just a telephase that would last but one squat thrust.
As my one cell struggled to come up with another Mitosis pun a centrifugal force ripped me from my female gamete and I was a hapless haploid heading down a dark crowded slimy tube shape corridor.
Time as I knew it, had slowed to about the speed of continental drift when I heard sounds in the distance. The darkness was infinite, so much darker than my ritual, I stared intro the blackness and could not see Hannah’s face or my wet nurse or my funeral - only more darkness then finally, an oval blurred light in the corner that spread.
The first thing to come into focus was a picture of a dog. With a hat. Holding cards. He was at a table with similarly dressed high-rolling gambling, cigar smoking dogs. The Irish setter had a 10 high straight under his paw. The Saint Bernard was bluffing. The rest of the room came into focus, a plaque that said “The 18th hole” was bolted into a bar, there was a record playing. It was the Kingston Trio. I knew the song,I knew the place. I realized that I was still moving backwards I was yanked through my Dad's doo-dad's and I was now a thought trapped in his. I could feel other neurotic thoughts battering me around, until my father had worked himself to a familiar disconnecting paralysis, staring into the darkness or my grandmother's basement making shapes in the dark. The last thing I heard was the garbled backward chorus, “Hang down your head, Tom…Dooley. Hang down your head and cry.”
I had been rehearsing this speech over and over again. I can’t define irony exactly, but this here is some O. Henry shit! I suppose we should start at my funeral. Here goes: I was never really good at life. I never cared for it. I could take it or leave it. I was never suicidal- those guys have balls. My ritual was for pussies. I would sit idly and amplify every neurosis and regret in my head. Then turned out the lights and sit for hours staring into darkness and making shapes in my head. Sometimes I strummed the same three chords over and over again and thought that my musical plateau to be a convenient metaphor.
Usually, I would snap out of my catatonic state and force myself to feel renewed. Armed with a flimsy, happy slogan,“Today will be different,” I said aloud to no one with the brief optimism that a full cup of coffee brings. Invariably they were never different and my flirtations with the human race - sending out resumes, calling an old girlfriend or simply bullshitting with a cab driver - were hopeless to tether me to the world at large. It could take months, sometimes years, sometimes weeks but I would always end up sitting in the dark by myself again hearing those same damn three chords that didn’t express anything but my lack of lessons.
That being said, I functioned well enough as a perfectly bland Director of Marketing Initiatives for a dietary supplement company, a suitable career choice for a man afraid or unwilling to empathize with others. Still, I was bouncing continually from two opposing clichés: “no man is an island” and "hell is other people," which always left me paralyzed in the middle. I stopped and started for years, 76 of them, in fact, outliving everyone I knew through my ironic and accidental good health.
As I remember, my funeral was tasteful, generic and surprisingly well lit. No one I knew very well was there; mostly my cousins who I hadn’t seen in years and their kids. No one really wept since I was by then, a burden of the state and If I could spare one less dirty bedpan to be cleaned by that heavy-set woman at the hospital, that is a better gift than scented candles Possibly a nephew’s kid looked at the clock repeatedly, unaware he's being lied to.
You see, sometime around the age of 37, my days grew so monotonous, so impossible to tell apart, I didn’t realize I had been aging backwards for 39 years. I know you’re thinking that I stumbled on every man’s dream, but aging backwards is every bit as isolating and unremarkable as aging frontward. This is not Benjamin Buttons or Dorian Gray story or even Vice Versa- when Judge Rheinhold and Fred Savage switched bodies. This is real life- my life - one bored me so shitless I couldn’t even tell if it were moving frontward or backward in the first place. And since I was no good at it, with my quality of life getting worse every year anyway - smaller apartment, fatter girlfriend, same job- a second chance at tethering myself to humanity was inherently flawed.
I should note that all backwards time up to this point was buried deep in my subconscious, where it should have stayed till as a curious oaf, I triggered it. When I had my bi-monthly depression ritual of staring into blackness with my guitar in hand, I started to see shapes in the black, then entire scenes. I was hoisted out of the dirt at my funeral, defecating in reverse while a nurse watched and saw the doctor’s expression going from pensive to cordial as the test results were sent back to the orderly. My ritual did indeed induce an epiphany, but it was not what I excepted. I was seeing things that already happened in the future. Confusing, huh?
Also when time moves backwards, it moves faster as you go. Before I could even process this absurdity, I was 28 with a poorly tied tie, nodding off in someone’s frightful power point presentation. I didn’t want to sit through it again, so I tried to kill myself by choking on a Cinnabon, which as luck would have it, was suspiciously moist that day.
Years flew by, people walked in and out, hemorrhoids flared and I arrived at the moment I had been practicing my speech for, the one moment I felt like I wasn’t a machine and I wouldn’t be suffocated by my comforter or dissolve in the shower. I was with Hannah in our spacious apartment. Flawed as our relationship was -we were doomed to bicker like my parents and make scenes at Pier One Imports and such - I arrived thinking i could fix this with my future wisdom. But it was even worse the second time around. The knowledge of how events will play out will crush natural human interaction. Here's how:
She was giddy. I was clingy. She thinks the wedding is three months away. I know it never happens. I detached. I wouldn’t be staying long. Any blissful moments left became cruel and ironic. But most of all, we failed to connect because I couldn’t speak! All my words came out fucking backwards! She thought I was possessed! As a last resort, I tried explaining the entire ordeal speaking backward into a my dual cassette tape recorder with high speed dubbing then playing it back forwards. But I couldn't figure it out. The tape snapped off the spool of the maxell XL-II 90 and I couldn't thread it back together. The tape became more tangled the more I tried to fix it. Finally I tried asking her to reverse reverse cowgirl me and send me forwards in time but it was no use. I could feel my pores clogging and braces tightening as I derped back into adolescence.
Now the years were moving indescribably fast. It reminded me of my inability to water ski – being pulled behind a speedboat, trying to slow momentum with your hands. Like with Hannah, moments of childhood were not the same. Your parents and sports idols can only hold up to the scrutiny of a child.
So, you know how this ends. The cord was attached. I will spare you the details of re-entering my Mom’s vagina. But let’s just say, in the next life I assume I will have a crippling fear of tunnels.
I thought surely, I was finally dead. I was incapable of linear thought, just sensations. I had no body, no soul that I was aware of and at that briefest of moments, I had peace and an sense of fulfillment. I was not dead- just a zygote. I was a perfectly insular community of two, a diploid cell attached contently to my female gamete. This proved to be just a telephase that would last but one squat thrust.
As my one cell struggled to come up with another Mitosis pun a centrifugal force ripped me from my female gamete and I was a hapless haploid heading down a dark crowded slimy tube shape corridor.
Time as I knew it, had slowed to about the speed of continental drift when I heard sounds in the distance. The darkness was infinite, so much darker than my ritual, I stared intro the blackness and could not see Hannah’s face or my wet nurse or my funeral - only more darkness then finally, an oval blurred light in the corner that spread.
The first thing to come into focus was a picture of a dog. With a hat. Holding cards. He was at a table with similarly dressed high-rolling gambling, cigar smoking dogs. The Irish setter had a 10 high straight under his paw. The Saint Bernard was bluffing. The rest of the room came into focus, a plaque that said “The 18th hole” was bolted into a bar, there was a record playing. It was the Kingston Trio. I knew the song,I knew the place. I realized that I was still moving backwards I was yanked through my Dad's doo-dad's and I was now a thought trapped in his. I could feel other neurotic thoughts battering me around, until my father had worked himself to a familiar disconnecting paralysis, staring into the darkness or my grandmother's basement making shapes in the dark. The last thing I heard was the garbled backward chorus, “Hang down your head, Tom…Dooley. Hang down your head and cry.”
The Self-Esteem Scrolls
That sinking feeling, that the joke is on you, that someone is telling you the wrong meeting time for a movie, you’re waiting in the principal’s office and they just called your parents, your boss just sent you on and endless delivery just to get you out of the production office- better act like nothing’s wrong.
That’s it tell a joke- tell the same story you’ve told a hundred times before stop at the same beats and hold for laughs. (blow job) beat (crazy arab) beat (I’m standing highway with a bic pen and no pants) beat- Because you know me – the happiest go lucky guy in the world who couldn’t be more relaxed and more bubbly to be right here in this not at all awkward moment- talking to you.
That’s it tell a joke- tell the same story you’ve told a hundred times before stop at the same beats and hold for laughs. (blow job) beat (crazy arab) beat (I’m standing highway with a bic pen and no pants) beat- Because you know me – the happiest go lucky guy in the world who couldn’t be more relaxed and more bubbly to be right here in this not at all awkward moment- talking to you.
SUBWAY FIGHT!!!!! (and I stole a Bible)
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"How do I know I'm mad?" asked Alice. "You must be" said the cat. "Or you wouldn't have come here."
Good thing Lewis Carrol was quoted in Batman: Arkham Asylum so I don't have look up anything for a blog.
Point being: however gentrified this city is, there is still enough crazy to go around. Trust me, it's not nearly as ballznutz crazy as it was in the 80's, when just making it through the Port Authority after rush hour was considered cheating death, but it still can test you in ways you can't smell coming. Maybe that's what this place is - an Arkham Asylum isolated by dirty rivers and ten dollar tolls. Don't get me wrong, I love it here. But some days I think I am insane for even wanting to live here. I stay up at night dreaming of a bland, spacious, McApartment in Indiana with a nice car. Days like today.
After working on Labor Day, I was heading home on the uptown N. I sat between a pair of ginormous, friendly lesbians who tried in vain to make room for me on the bench (wasn't happening) and a pair of Queens bound Queens across form me. A tall black guy with a Bible gets on at Queensboro Plaza. (sounds like a priest and a rabbi joke, but this really happened and was decidedly NOT FUNNY)
The man immediately started shouting very loudly. Even on a separate decibel scale of subway nuttery, this man stood out.
"Jesus!" he screamed. "Homosexuals and Fornicators will fry in hell."
As is always the case when I encounter the batshit I remember the rules
1. No eye contact
2. Do not try to reason with the batshit
3. Pretend you do not hear the man shouting two feet away from you.
"Gay people are a curse! It is not a choice! They are a curse on humanity!" he went on.
The gays just rolled their eyes. I did not want to dignify him bu so much as looking up from my book. Ignore him and he'll go away. My mother might say. Not today, Ma.
"There are hellbound gay people right here!" He then pointed (pointed!) to the pair of Queens, who were still in the increasingly ineffective "pretend we don't notice" mode.
Finally, a voice of dissent in the form of the oldest man on the train. Surely this elderly, bestpectacled man had seen too much in his 80 or so years to tolerate such ignorance. "Shut the fuck up! No one wants to what you think!" the old man barked and received a thunderous ovation. He went on "You'll be there in hell with him. All the ni**ers. You're all going to hell!"
(applause tetering out)
"You and all the other ni**ers! You people are all murderers and rapists."
(aaawk-waaaard)
In Minnesota, this hate-spewing man, bible guy (uhm the black guy who hates gays, not the white guy who hates black guys) would be the craziest man in four states. In this city, he is only THE SECOND CRAZIEST MAN ON THE TRAIN!
From 39th street to Broadway no one made a sound other than these two men. The riders, confused, being forced to back a homophobic screaming man or and elderly racist just stared at them and braced for some unforeseen ugliness. The tension could only last only one stop...so I thought.
The old racist got off at Broadway, and dropped a series of N-bombs on his way out the door. But the Bible guy douchenozzle never missed a beat. "Hell is a real place. Homosexuals will burn!" A voice from the back finally yelled, "Shut the fuck up, asshole" and got some applause as people desperately wanted a non-racist spokesperson to stand up to this nut. Anything to make him stop. The nutcase said "Only the homosexuals clapped!" To which i said, "I'm straight and I clapped." Which may be the first sign I was losing it since I had to have my sexuality validated by the homeless. (one of the lesbians patted me on the back for saying that) Anyway the crowd now really ganged up on and this guy seemed to dig in further as he got outnumbered.
Finally, at 30th ave the man who yelled shut the fuck up walked up to confront this guy. I thought, well here comes the fight and ensuing rioting and looting. I just hope it comes after my stop. This man was not gay. He was not black. He was not making a statement as far as I can tell. He was however, very pissed off. He cocked his arm back, as if he was going to throw a punch, but instead he spit in his face! At point blank range! Then for good measure he punched him anyway. I mean he landed a haymaker, the kind you see in a movie that makes a huge popping sound. And the guy went down Glass Joe -style!
The angry dude (uhm, again the white guy) probably would have continued to beat the shit out of him, but his stop was Astoria Blvd. His girlfriend pulled him off the train. Amazingly, the hateful screaming bat-shit, fuckface got right up, didn't even wipe the spit from his face and started yelling again, "They spit on Jesus! They beat Jesus! They yelled insults at him! I am here to save you!" Now every remaining person was yelling at this guy. After comparing himself to Jesus I said, "Pride comes before the fall." Now I know I am losing it because he made me quote the Bible. And I only knew that because it was in the Departed.
With two, possibly three minutes till my stop. I simply could not bear this hideous screaming another second. Punching, spitting, and screaming back did not deter him. Then it an idea so simple it's stupid, so brilliant it's retarded: steal his Bible. He waved that thing around like Thurman Thomas carries a football. In one motion I could grab the Bible, fling it out the doors when the opened, that way he would chase after it and the doors would close behind behind him. Me and my new gay friends would point and taunt as he banged on the closed doors. Brilliant. (see and unwritten blog that disproved my Arthur Fonzarelli one-punch knockout plan that resulted in getting band from the Derby in Atlanta since 1999)
The only problem was this was the last stop. Of course we were all getting off at Ditmars as coincidence would have it. I walked slow on the platform hoping he would walk ahead of me. But he slowed down to wait for the gays to get off so he could yell at them all the way down the stairs. So he ended up right next to me. Immediately he started screaming at the poor gay guys, who through all this tried to take the high road. There it was right at arm's length. It actually went just like I saw in my revenge fantasy! I snagged it right from under him. His tone changed from fire and brimstone to some sort of pathetic plea bargainer. "No really, give me back the Bible. C'Mon man, I need it." His voice hardly a whisper.
"My Bible now." I replied like a teacher who just took away a paper airplane.
"Really, give me back my Bible." I faked as if I threw it over the elevated platform. And his eyes followed like when I used to fake throw the tennis balls to my dear departed Chocolate Lab.
"You'll get it back if you say nothing between now and the time I cross that turnstile. "No I need my Bi-" Then he just cut off. Then after the long two seconds, I went through the turnstile before he did. Then true to my word, I dropped it at his feet.
There are so many things wrong with this incident, I don't know where to start. Let me see:
1) First of all, what if some bystanders or police officer saw me steal a Bible from a possibly homeless man and throw it? I completely forgot that the Bible is considered sacred by some sane people as well and it is more illegal than anything he did
2) This man knows my stop and could have followed me home and sacrificed me to his God
3)Obvious racists and homophobes need little prompting to let their true colors show even in the most inappropriate places.
4) The First Amendment sucks
5)How fast mob mentality can take over
6) Did sanity prevail after all? Or did this man "win" for disrupting everyone- did we "lose" for being unable to ignore him.
7) Why did it take an act of violence to unite us? Again, I think it is seldom justified- but never is a strong word. Some people need a punch in the face.
8) Is taking the high road always a more appropriate action than a confrontation, even on the subway?
More so than anything I just felt I was sane at 14th street and I was a little less sane when I got to Ditmars. Too late for a timeshare in Montanta?
Infinite McFlys + Infinite Biffs = Infinite Buttheads
Nothing in Back to the Future or it's sequels makes a damn bit of sense, even by 80s movies standards. Not that time travel makes sense in any movie. Like a prom night slut on her fourth Bartles and James, we are willing to swallow quite a bit. We need to dumb ourselves down for that two pumps and a squirt worth of entertainment and will believe anything. Well, almost anything. If it's a western, we know John Wayne's six shooter can fire anywhere from 11-to 48 times, pending the number of Jews painted like Indians he may encounter. But you, Back to the Future, you had to go and insult us.
Let's start in order of magnitude of bullshit.
1) You could always try again, with a time machine
Okay you know the set up of Part II: Biff is the mayor or some shit, Hill Valley is a crime-ridden cesspool and Lea Thompson has twice the Boobage she had in Space Camp. (side note: she gets in on with Tom Cruise in All the Right Moves and he is in waaaay over his head)
Here you go, pervs
Why is good old Hill Valley in tatters? The answer is perfectly logical: Biff went back in time and stole a sports almanac and was able to amass a fortune based on gambling winnings and subsequently mount Marty's mom. And as Doc Brown shat out the entire ludicrous backstory with the chalkboard. He warns Marty, "We must not fail in our task!!!" Marty asks, "Then what happens?" And Doc doesn't even answer him, because he knows Marty just stumbled upon a giant plot hole!
Marty knows the truth: If he failed to retrieve the Sports Almanac. He could just try again the next day. Or the day before. Or at any point. In fact. He could go all the way back and snuff out infant Biff with a pillow. They didn't even know about SIDS back then. So really nothing depends on the Sports Almanac at all. And of course, Biff could go back the day before Marty arrives and take the Almanac back, back and forth until some it is so confusing and muddled we have The Biff Tannen Chronicles on Fox. Which leads us right to our next problem:
The Multiple Biff Conundrum.
The Marty in the leather jacket has to avoid the Marty from the first movie that is onstage making Johnny B. Goode white and Canadian. Doc Brown, who warns Marty to avoid the "other" Marty, for some reason is just casually passing by the clock tower where he knows the other Doc Brown will already be there for the 1.21 jigawatts (it's gigawatts, right? Hard G?) He seem intent on not heeding his own advice on not
disrupting the space/time continuum.
So part III takes place in the Hill Valley of 1885. So now Never there is a Doc Brown in 1885, one in 1955 and one in 1985 and none of the Doc Browns noted the Highlander-like scientific necessity of killing the others- "There can only be one!" proclaimed notes physicist Connor McLeod (on a side note why was Christopher Lambert cast as a Scot and Sean Connery cast as Spaniard) No seriously, he needs to kill the other Doc Browns for cosmic harmony.
So for every trip they take in the DeLorean, there is a identical Marty and identical Doc and identical Biff all disrupting an identical timeline. Making an infinite number of lines in the chalkboard and an exponential number of Hill Valleys. Surely they could let Biff have his Casino in one of them. Clearly he has self-esteem issues. Or they could just leave that Dystopian nightmare and live in any of the paralell Hill Valleys. Maybe even one that's racially integrated.
3) Clark Kent Complex
ANYWAY, once Marty is in 1885, he stumbles upon his great-great grandfather, who is just Michael J. Fox in a mustache and Irish accent so bad he sounds like the drunk Irish cops in the Bugs Bunny shorts that got pulled from syndication. So Maggie McFly does not notice that her husband and the awkward stranger LOOK EXACTLY ALIKE? Of course she doesn't. Couldn't he just has easily looked exactly like Crispin Glover or does the identical gene skip four generations? That's not to even mention that neither Lorraine McFly or Geroge notice that their son looks EXACTLY like that kind stranger who got them together at the Enchantment under the Sea Dance.
4) Bad Dialogue 1885-present
Those are just a few of the major plot holes. To say nothing of little things like when Marty refers to John F. Kennedy boulevard, the archetype 50's soda jerk replies, "Who the hell is John F. Kennedy?" What an unnatural response! Go to another town and tell another person the name of your street. Aren't most streets named after people you've never heard of? (thanks Chris for pointing this out)
The McFlys have been replaced by Pod Replicants
Furthermore, at the end of the first one when he returns to the "fixed" Hill Valley Timeline, George is a best selling author Lorraine is still hot, his brother no longer works at Burger King and his chubby sister has become a popular slut. So in other words, Marty returns home to find a house full of strangers. Wouldn't that be alienating as hell?
The only plausible explanation for time travel is in Austin Powers when Basil Expedition looks right in the camera and says, "I'm not worried about it and neither should you." and I am paraphrasing. Scientists however argue that while time travel is pretty dodgy, parallel universes are scientifically sound theories, this is where Back to the Future is below DC Comics's multiverse in plausibility. In mathematical terms: the amount of molecules colliding in the universe is vast beyond comprehension but not infinite, meaning at some point all those random molecules will collide in the exact same order at some point. So it is a scientific probability that you are reading this exact same inane blog in another universe. Loser.
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Let's start in order of magnitude of bullshit.
1) You could always try again, with a time machine
Okay you know the set up of Part II: Biff is the mayor or some shit, Hill Valley is a crime-ridden cesspool and Lea Thompson has twice the Boobage she had in Space Camp. (side note: she gets in on with Tom Cruise in All the Right Moves and he is in waaaay over his head)
Here you go, pervs
Why is good old Hill Valley in tatters? The answer is perfectly logical: Biff went back in time and stole a sports almanac and was able to amass a fortune based on gambling winnings and subsequently mount Marty's mom. And as Doc Brown shat out the entire ludicrous backstory with the chalkboard. He warns Marty, "We must not fail in our task!!!" Marty asks, "Then what happens?" And Doc doesn't even answer him, because he knows Marty just stumbled upon a giant plot hole!
Marty knows the truth: If he failed to retrieve the Sports Almanac. He could just try again the next day. Or the day before. Or at any point. In fact. He could go all the way back and snuff out infant Biff with a pillow. They didn't even know about SIDS back then. So really nothing depends on the Sports Almanac at all. And of course, Biff could go back the day before Marty arrives and take the Almanac back, back and forth until some it is so confusing and muddled we have The Biff Tannen Chronicles on Fox. Which leads us right to our next problem:
The Multiple Biff Conundrum.
The Marty in the leather jacket has to avoid the Marty from the first movie that is onstage making Johnny B. Goode white and Canadian. Doc Brown, who warns Marty to avoid the "other" Marty, for some reason is just casually passing by the clock tower where he knows the other Doc Brown will already be there for the 1.21 jigawatts (it's gigawatts, right? Hard G?) He seem intent on not heeding his own advice on not
disrupting the space/time continuum.
So part III takes place in the Hill Valley of 1885. So now Never there is a Doc Brown in 1885, one in 1955 and one in 1985 and none of the Doc Browns noted the Highlander-like scientific necessity of killing the others- "There can only be one!" proclaimed notes physicist Connor McLeod (on a side note why was Christopher Lambert cast as a Scot and Sean Connery cast as Spaniard) No seriously, he needs to kill the other Doc Browns for cosmic harmony.
So for every trip they take in the DeLorean, there is a identical Marty and identical Doc and identical Biff all disrupting an identical timeline. Making an infinite number of lines in the chalkboard and an exponential number of Hill Valleys. Surely they could let Biff have his Casino in one of them. Clearly he has self-esteem issues. Or they could just leave that Dystopian nightmare and live in any of the paralell Hill Valleys. Maybe even one that's racially integrated.
3) Clark Kent Complex
ANYWAY, once Marty is in 1885, he stumbles upon his great-great grandfather, who is just Michael J. Fox in a mustache and Irish accent so bad he sounds like the drunk Irish cops in the Bugs Bunny shorts that got pulled from syndication. So Maggie McFly does not notice that her husband and the awkward stranger LOOK EXACTLY ALIKE? Of course she doesn't. Couldn't he just has easily looked exactly like Crispin Glover or does the identical gene skip four generations? That's not to even mention that neither Lorraine McFly or Geroge notice that their son looks EXACTLY like that kind stranger who got them together at the Enchantment under the Sea Dance.
4) Bad Dialogue 1885-present
Those are just a few of the major plot holes. To say nothing of little things like when Marty refers to John F. Kennedy boulevard, the archetype 50's soda jerk replies, "Who the hell is John F. Kennedy?" What an unnatural response! Go to another town and tell another person the name of your street. Aren't most streets named after people you've never heard of? (thanks Chris for pointing this out)
The McFlys have been replaced by Pod Replicants
Furthermore, at the end of the first one when he returns to the "fixed" Hill Valley Timeline, George is a best selling author Lorraine is still hot, his brother no longer works at Burger King and his chubby sister has become a popular slut. So in other words, Marty returns home to find a house full of strangers. Wouldn't that be alienating as hell?
The only plausible explanation for time travel is in Austin Powers when Basil Expedition looks right in the camera and says, "I'm not worried about it and neither should you." and I am paraphrasing. Scientists however argue that while time travel is pretty dodgy, parallel universes are scientifically sound theories, this is where Back to the Future is below DC Comics's multiverse in plausibility. In mathematical terms: the amount of molecules colliding in the universe is vast beyond comprehension but not infinite, meaning at some point all those random molecules will collide in the exact same order at some point. So it is a scientific probability that you are reading this exact same inane blog in another universe. Loser.
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I fought pirannas and I fought the cold....
I really did walk in on my parents fucking. I was just old enough to figure out precisely what was going on. My Dad was on top, reminding me much of the wave pool in Action Park and my Mom was on the bottom just looking terrified. Not that I caught them, but that my obese father would lose his balance in the confusion and kill her. It was physically impossible to back pedal out of there, slam the door and haul ass back upstairs any faster than I did. It matters not. The damage had been done. That image was singed into my brain forever. It can't be undone.
Today on the ever important facebook news feed it said to try some new friend finder, that I think is exactly like the new friend finder. Though I can't imagine anyone I would still want to find that isn't already on this godforsaken abyss of time suckage, but I am impulsive as shit. Immediately, I saw my ex. Which one, you may ask. THE ex. The one I had to make a conscious decision to never, ever look up on Facebook, even in my weakest hour. Like i did some 25 years earlier, I quickly tried to unsee what I saw. I exed out of there (pun) like I had busty lesbian enema videos on my work computer. It was no use. It was such a blur I can only be sure of two things: 1) It was definitely her, her super blonde, long blonde hair was a blinding and beautiful 2) the guy she is with is dressed as a pumpkin.
Do you really want to be friends with girls from your past. Or are you planting your seed to plant your seed? Are you vying for the coveted title of emergency dick in a box? Or do you have a legitimate pathetic desire to count your ex as a friend? Who knows what are true motivations are...
Today on the ever important facebook news feed it said to try some new friend finder, that I think is exactly like the new friend finder. Though I can't imagine anyone I would still want to find that isn't already on this godforsaken abyss of time suckage, but I am impulsive as shit. Immediately, I saw my ex. Which one, you may ask. THE ex. The one I had to make a conscious decision to never, ever look up on Facebook, even in my weakest hour. Like i did some 25 years earlier, I quickly tried to unsee what I saw. I exed out of there (pun) like I had busty lesbian enema videos on my work computer. It was no use. It was such a blur I can only be sure of two things: 1) It was definitely her, her super blonde, long blonde hair was a blinding and beautiful 2) the guy she is with is dressed as a pumpkin.
Do you really want to be friends with girls from your past. Or are you planting your seed to plant your seed? Are you vying for the coveted title of emergency dick in a box? Or do you have a legitimate pathetic desire to count your ex as a friend? Who knows what are true motivations are...
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