When time travel goes awry, it looks like this.
Previously on “Crime Rhymes With Time, So Does Rhyme”: Connie DuWhonnie, a devout atheist, went on a time traveling excursion. After much internal debate, ADHD got the best of her, and she inadvertently straightened out a crooked painting of a seashore, breaking the one law of time travel, don’t tamper with it. We now return to “Crime Rhymes With Time, So Does Rhyme.”
When Connie returned home. She exhaled a humongous sigh of relief. Everything was as she left it. She emptied her pockets, taking out some loose change. That’s when things got strange. The quarters felt like nickels, and nickels like pennies. It was becoming apparent that her hands were growing larger. It did not stop there.
Aside from Hitler being born, do you know what else happened in 1889? This.
Connie DuWhonnie was unimpressed. To further exemplify her indifference, she snorted, “Meh.”
As far as she was concerned, time travel is overrated, especially when going back in time. Sure, the scientific breakthrough aspect is nothing to sneeze at. Yes, it’s amazing that we have actualized the concept of movement between certain points in time, but beyond that, boring. All you can do is observe the things you can read about in history books. You might as well watch Hallmark made-for-cable-TV historic re-enactments of Christmas.
Bowling is the thinking man’s chess.
He insisted we call him Bennett, after all, it was his name, but we were all like, fuck that, you’re Benny, and so, he became Benny. Inadvertently, the rest of us were called The Jets, and truth be told, it sucked ass. The implication that we were so insignificant that we became a collective bordered on pathetic. It was disheartening, as well as bad for our self worth.
“Hungry Eyes” came on the radio. I turned it up, in fact, I cranked it. I acknowledged the green light, and proceeded through the intersection with great caution. I did not turn it up because I liked the song; no, God forbid, no, I hated the fucking song. As far as I was concerned, Eric Carmen was a lucky piece of shit for that career revival move of riding the coat tails of the success of the overly mediocre movie “Dirty Dancing.” At this moment, I would rather hear this horrible tripe for music than hear another racist rant from my boss.