If there’s one thing more enduring than human stupidity, it’s the deep, desperate hope that someone, somewhere, has figured out how to escape it — preferably by building a machine out of junkyard parts and disappearing into the swirling folds of time.
Enter time travel: the grand, glittering promise that somewhere out there, beyond the laws of physics and good taste, people are zipping back and forth through history like badly dressed cosmic tourists.
Of course, none of these alleged time travelers ever bring anything useful back. No clear predictions. No winning lottery numbers. No clear photos of future cities, no undisputed documentation, no salvaged technology that might, I don’t know, solve world hunger or reverse climate change.
Instead, we get shaky YouTube videos filmed from behind dirty windshield glass, featuring a guy in cargo shorts solemnly swearing he’s from the year 2740 and here to warn us about…vague disasters. Soon. Very soon. Maybe next Tuesday.
There’s always a great war coming, a big shift, a technological singularity conveniently close enough to sound dramatic but far enough away that no one can check their work.
And the evidence? Usually a grainy photo of a blurry “advanced device” that looks suspiciously like a mid-2000s Blackberry. Or a prediction about a sports event that was already publicized last month. Or a deep, heartfelt warning to “prepare yourselves” for a future that’s somehow exactly like every dystopian Netflix show from the past five years.
I once sat through an entire symposium — and I use that word with the kind of liberal generosity normally reserved for airport nachos — where a panel of self-declared chrononauts earnestly explained the rules of time travel.
Rule One: you can’t change major events.
Rule Two: you can only “observe.”
Rule Three: you have to wear appropriate historical clothing, or else “the energy field around you destabilizes.”
Meaning, apparently, that if you travel to ancient Rome in cargo shorts and a “Don’t Tread on Me” tank top, you’re going to rip a hole in the space-time continuum.
I asked how they traveled. They assured me it was top secret.
I asked if they could describe what the future looked like. They said it was “beautiful and tragic and full of light.”
I asked for literally anything specific. They changed the subject to how my negative energy was blocking their memories.
Here’s what I did learn. If time travelers are among us, they’re doing a spectacularly bad job at saving anything, predicting anything, or wearing appropriate pants.
If you meet one, don’t hand them your money or your hope. Hand them a calendar and a strong recommendation for therapy.