My Faithful Readers, I come to you today with an impassioned plea.
If any of you out there ever invite time travel, I’m begging you to go back in time to roughly midnight last night.
Wait for me to exit the subway in Central Square.
Follow me down Massachusetts Avenue.
When you see me stop in front of Hi-Fi Pizza and longingly stare in the window, I want you to coldcock in me in the back of the head with a tube-sock full of batteries and angry bees.
If I look like I’m getting back up and still contemplating the merits of eating at Hi-Fi, just keep bashing me in the head until I give up and crawl home.
Do not kill me. Do not give me brain damage. Do not leave any long-lasting, permanent physical damage.
I just need you to keep me from making the late-night dining mistake I’ve made too many times.
Your mission is simple: Do not let me walk into Hi-Fi and under no circumstances should you allow me to order a meatball sub.
If you arrive late and I’ve already ordered the sub, then you take drastic measures. You feel free to forget the aforementioned list of things not to do. Give me brain damage. Bust me up real good. Put a few dents in my noggin.
Do whatever it is you need to do to ensure that I don’t eat that scourge!
As an added bonus for your role in this endeavor, whoever goes back in time and prevents me from eating that God-forsaken sandwich—which is currently tearing through my insides like a buzzsaw from hell—will be allowed to remove all of the cash money I had on my person at the time, roughly $60.
If that isn’t getting your motor running to go out and invent time travel, I don’t know what will.
Now go out there and build me a f’n time machine!