Memoire of a Former Time Traveler

The Presidents had long learned how to time travel. Come on, Bush? That fucking election, you know it. All those crazy mix-ups, the way he jumbled his words. Too much time travel. Fucks you up worse than dope. Worst thing is, nobody believes you, they’re not allowed to. National security, we figure it out. You know those days where everyone you know is tired, fucking fatigued, counting the seconds on the clock, can barely keep their own head on straight, its just got to be something in the air, the way everybody’s hauling ass to the office coffee pot or taking shots of espresso, stacking five-hour energy shots on the counter like trophies of olympian glory. Shit. Like you don’t crash even harder, leaving you more desperate for something even vaguely resembling motivation to finish that piece of shit paper. Yeah, it ain’t nothing in the air that punches you in the gut. Ain’t the chem trails those bitches keep going on about that make you feel that way. It’s time travel. Fucking wears out the nation, makes politicians meet brain but, oh, it’s better than anything. Let me tell you I don’t give a fuck about the alphabet. I just love messing with bitches from the past. They look at me like a freaking God. Either awe or fear. A bit of both on my good days. Sometimes I dress up like somebody who got lynched the day before, somebody who made it to the papers in that fucked up front page way. Collective, sadistic as shit. I felt good about that alright, but the best, oh the fucking best is to say who accused whom of witchcraft, go to their house, and then tell them their God is on the other line of my cellphone. If I don’t freak them out with a fucking furby next to their bed, first. And you wonder about the recluses, they had a reason to stay indoors. Past is great, get the right money and you can live for years. Fucking love inflation. Get a jukebox and a ford 1949, roller skate waitresses and sweethearts for real, not too good to eat the meat from a real while back though and you got to be careful with the (login?) and the fucking ice cream parlor no less. Too many cranked out housewives, too. I wish I could have shaken them loose and got them to burn their bras and join the movement but I gotta let them get angry enough to do it first. Gloria Steinem, she was nothing compared to the girls I could have taken to my time. The revolution would have been made with girls with finger curls. They wouldn’t have had to take half the shit they did. Of course, whenever I got drugs I tried to see what fucked up artist I could patron. Charles Baudelaire was out of my league because of the French but Edgar, my love, was brilliant, brilliant. Don’t know what he saw in that little bitch though. (Stream freezes) The past is great, just be careful, have fun. No one ever goes to the future anymore. We’ve all had our fun going to 2012, just to say we did, but nobody ever goes to the future now. Not since poor FDR, the poor bastard never came back after an impulse trip to 3016. Made a bet with the U.N. about the water supply, never found out about the fluoride/acid reinsurance but man, fucking 3016, we can only wonder what the fuck that was like. 2011. Transcribed from Misery Loves Company, September 4th, 2020.