 In an experiment worthy of a scientific prize, columnist Cedric Bigglestone embarks on a journey that takes place inside his mind, but has ramifications for everyone. Last month, I made a decision to change the way I think about and see the world. The following is a journal of my journey which I journaled about. PART ONE: The idea takes form. We all know that drugs can ruin your life. But at some point, sniffing cleaning supplies while you’re wearing tight nipple clamps can blur the lines between what is a drug and what is just an experience. In the midst of such an experience, I came up with an idea I couldn’t believe I’d never thought of before. It was simple. Pure. Elegant. I decided to switch the word “year” with “beer” and see what happened. PART TWO: Some early setbacks. At first, the idea didn’t seem so great. Especially when I took off the nipple clamps and stopped whiffing Lysol. I woke up the next morning with a note I’d written to myself on my own chest. It was impossible to read but it had something to do with trying to put something somewhere. Maybe my asshole? Anyway, I stopped trying to read the note and just took a shower. It was then that I remembered my pledge to myself—to switch years with beers. I was thirsty. So I went to my fridge for a “year.” That was stupid. Then I cracked open a “year” and drank it. This sucked. PART THREE: I start figuring out how to make it work. After drinking several more “years” I finally determined what was missing from my equation. It wasn’t that I needed to switch the words so much as just stop ever saying one of them. So I did it. I vowed to never use the word “year” again and to only use the word “beer” even when I was referring to beer. So, in essence I could drink a beer on New Beer’s Eve and then pour beer all over myself at the beerly beer festival. You get it. PART FOUR: Just saying the word gets old. You need to live it. I quickly found that just saying the word beer all the time wasn’t as great as I thought it would be. At first, I just screamed stuff at my neighbors, like, “Hey! What’s your beerly income?” and, “It’s that time of the fucking beer!” But they didn’t get it. Whatever. Then it hit me. I was just saying words. Not living them. PART FIVE: The transformation begins. I called my retirement planner and asked her how much I should be earning per beer in order to have enough money when I retired in thirty beers. She told me something about how I haven’t reported an income in more than seven beers and that she was pretty sure there was still a restraining order out against me for harassing her last beer and calling her asking for retirement advice when she was just some woman who greeted people at Walmart. PART SIX: I establish a five-beer plan. I decided to do what the Russians did under Stalin and do five-beer plans. When I was done with one, I would simply start a new one, till I needed to get more beer. PART SEVEN: I am able to time travel because of beer. That heading is a little deceptive. What I mean is that I am able to speed up or slow down time dramatically. For instance, forty years ago is a long time. Forty beers ago is this morning. A hundred years from now, we’ll all be dead. A hundred beers from now, I will probably be dead, but not for sure. It kind of depends how fast I drink them over how many minutes. Bonus: Haley’s comet comes every 76 years. Now it comes every 76 beers. PART EIGHT: My obligations are taken care of almost instantly. Everything I’m supposed to do once or twice a year are now done once or twice a beer. Doctor’s appointments, eye exams, updating my passwords, and Christmas are all done while I’m slamming a beer. The problem is doing all these things every beer because I drink so much and can’t enjoy having one without doing all this other shit too. Oh, and the doctors won’t come see me anymore. None of them. CONCLUSION: I have solved the universe. When someone finally solves the universe, I guess you’d expect him to be really cocky and arrogant. I’m too drunk to do that.  If you’ve ever watched Apex t.v., you’ve seen videos of a guy who purports to be a time traveler. He sits at a picnic bench and has his face blurred out because, we guess, he’s afraid a secret government agency may show up at a picnic area at a public park and murder him. Anyway…. We were skeptical about the time traveler’s story so, we talked to other, real time travelers, to hear theirs. Many of them were fake. We’re just going to come straight out and say that. But then, one walked in our door and gave us information he could never have known without having seen the future and come back. We sat, astounded, by his tales. The following are excerpts that will astound you too. INTERVIEWER: So, I just want to get this straight. You’ve traveled through time? TIME TRAVELER: I guess you could say that. INTERVIEWER: You guess. TIME TRAVELER: I mean, I traveled here. Right now. INTERVIEWER: You were in the future and you came here? TIME TRAVELER: Uh. More like the past. I was in the past and came here, to now… INTERVIEWER: So you can travel into the past? What did you see? Where did you go? TIME TRAVELER: Well… I was driving… INTERVIEWER: Your time machine. TIME TRAVELER: No. My Ford Focus. INTERVIEWER: Your time machine is built into a Ford Focus. Kind of like “Back to the Future”? TIME TRAVELER: No. INTERVIEWER: Jesus. Do you understand how an interview works? You need to give us a little more. Be colorful. Tell us in detail about your time travels. TIME TRAVELER: I’m scared. INTERVIEWER: Of the government? TIME TRAVELER: No. You. INTERVIEWER: Me? TIME TRAVELER: Listen, man. You ordered a pizza. I delivered the pizza. Can I go? INTERVIEWER: We don’t want your fucking time traveling pizza. How do we know there isn’t weird bacteria all over it from going through wormholes and shit? TIME TRAVELER: You don’t even need to pay me. Just let me go. INTERVIEWER: O.K. I get it. If we untie you, and let you go, you’re just going to get in your time traveling machine and go somewhere in the future where we can’t get you. TIME TRAVELER: Yeah? I guess? INTERVIEWER: Who wins the Jets-Dolphins game this weekend and by how much? TIME TRAVELER: I don’t really, uh, follow football… INTERVIEWER: Why? Because football isn’t a sport in the future? TIME TRAVELER: It isn’t? INTERVIEWER: I’m asking you! Did you do something to football? Did you take it away from us? What the fuck did you do? What did you do, man? I fucking love football. TIME TRAVELER: I’m sorry. Just please. Let me go. I just want to leave. INTERVIEWER: Jets-Dolphins, motherfucker. TIME TRAVELER: Jets win 23-17. INTERVIEWER: Fuck. I knew it. I need to call my bookie. TIME TRAVELER: Can I go? INTERVIEWER: I don’t give a fuck. At this point in the interview, the time traveler re-entered his time-travel machine and took off. While we couldn’t see the Ford Focus disappear or shoot through a worm hole, it did drive far enough away that we couldn’t see it anymore. |
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