The rules of time travel are a lot like those of paper, rock, scissors. You see, when I was a little kid, I mistakenly assumed everyone played the same way as I. Count down three, two, one, then say shoot, exposing your hand either flat like paper, fisted for rock, or like a v for scissors. Then the inevitable victory dance or accusations of cheating. Repeat for hours on end. But no. Apparently, everyone has their own little house rules like the goddamn free parking space in Monopoly. This whole shoot thing? Most people don’t say shoot. They just fire out on one, those premature scissorers. And, if this travesty wasn’t appalling enough, there’s a whole nother segment of idiots who actually say “paper, scissors, rock” instead of “1, 2, 3”. And sometimes, “paper, scissors, rock, shoot” instead of “1, 2, 3”. And I haven’t even gotten into the tornados yet. Yeah, some douche bags blatantly ignore the rules and say “tornado”--even though that’s fucking stupid because while a tornado might alter a rock’s position, it doesn’t really beat or destroy it. It just hangs out in a different place, possibly at the bottom of a canyon or on someone’s nightstand as a goddamn pet. I mean, seriously, is it me or has the whole world gone fucking crazy? Am I the only one who gives a shit about the rules? Mark it zero.
Listen, this whole time traveling thing is like killing vampires.
Everyone thinks they know how to lay waste of those fuckers. Some of the sicker fucks among us even dream about it. I’d totally play all innocent like I didn’t know what Edward Cullen was up to and then when he came to bite me, bam!, piece of wood right through his vampire heart. I’d drink a lot of holy water in preparation too so I could finish him off by pissing all over his body while the hellspawn writhed in pain and I added embarrassment to injury for no reason whatsoever.
Yeah, that’s the ticket. Or maybe I’d put him in a locked room with garlic on the doorknobs or play both sides until one vampire turned on another like sleazy mob associates discerning who stole the knock-off Gucci purses.
These are the tried and true vampire killing instruments, the tools of certain death, if you will. But mostly they’re just red herrings. Not quite misinformation, quasi-information because there’s contradictory evidence at every turn. What kills Dracula might be what makes Count Chocula stronger. What wounds and cripples Lestat might make Salma Hayak an unstoppable, sexy, killing, stripping, seducing juggernaut. You never know how these sordid characters will react. The best you can manage it to devise a hoard of contingency plans but even that’s out the casket if some douche throws fire ants against your paper.
So, why do I get all hot and bothered over time travel movies and not odes to the undead? Because horror movies are forthright enough, decent enough to tell you what the fuck is going on. In most films, the vampire exists primarily as a predator; to feast on the meek, be hunted by the ballsy. And the most dangerous game is just that, so, there’s a guarantee that at some point during the film you will find out how to kill the cocksucker. This doesn’t work with time travel movies. They always half-explain things in bizarre clichés, leaving me to spend the entire movie wondering what the dynamics are. And that sucks.
I can accept time travel. Not in actuality, that would be lunacy, but on film--because rules don’t matter in a movie. But I need to know what the hell is going on so I can interpret and evaluate the choices the character is making. Is it okay for Michaelangelo to teach samurais how to make pizza? Well, that depends if it will alter the entire course of culinary history.
Pun intended. Would General Tso’s Chicken still exist? That might not be a sacrifice I can make in good conscious just to please some hungry ninjas. It’s all scientific backstory I need to know, and all too often no one bothers telling me a goddamn thing. How come Michael J. Fox can invent Rock N Roll, but Ashton Kutcher can’t ever save Amy Smart? Why don’t people ever reference Timecop anymore? Who unplugged the fucking Zoltar machine?
That’s what time traveling is, a fucking bullshit game of paper, monsoon, bird flu all queered out because some asshole doesn’t know or chooses to ignore the gameplay norms. And I don’t like it. I don’t like it in Back To The Future; I don’t like it in The Time Traveler’s Wife. I hate it in Black Knight; I hate it in The Butterfly Effect. It’s confusing, befuddling, occasionally disconcerting. Scientific anarchy at its most unorganized and selfish. Sometimes you can go back in time and meet yourself at a different age. Then other times you simply replace yourself at a different age while leaving a body double in your place. If time is a spectrum which can be hopscotched through like in Slaughterhouse V and who is on first and what is on second, someone tell me why no one can watch the fucking kids next week. Or last week for that matter.
So, Bill S. Preston Esquire and Ted Theodore Logan walk into some smart guy’s Time Masheen, and Leopold, the elevator guy not the idiot sociopath who left his rare glasses at the murder scene, says, “Where would you like to go to?” Bill S. Preston Esquire pauses and looks to his left and sees Linda Hamilton. “2029,” she says, nodding, silently regretting Shadow Conspiracy. Bill then looks to his right and sees The Sanderson Sisters. “1693,” Winnie says before breaking into cackle, not so surreptitiously rejoicing she isn’t the fattest sister. Finally, Mr. Preston looks behind him and sees a groundhog. “And what time do you think I should go to, little guy?” “Boy, that coyote is a douche bag” the groundhog says. “Now, start over until this joke is funny.”
So, Bill S. Preston Esquire and Ted Theodore Logan slingshot around the sun aboard the Enterprise, a goddamn whale in tow. They overshoot things a bit and end up in the distant past. Foraging for food, they come upon a pack of dilophosauruses, Marilyn Monroe, Pamela Anderson and Techumpseh. “Alright, I get the dinosaurs,” Ted says, “but what’s the story with you three?” And Techumpseh says, “It’s the only place people don’t expect us to get fucked.” Hey-0. Laughter always beats scissors, though loses to camel toe.
All I’m saying is give me a fucking manual, a cheat sheet, Cliff Notes, some sort of ordered key and let me study up instead of watching previews of The Closer on Kerasotes’ First Look. Or maybe write a screenplay which answers the questions it poses. That might be the better call, actually. We good? Alright, 1...2...3...shoot.
Yes, I’m positive rock beats poison.
