I know this crazy scientist. He thinks I’m pretty cool and asked if I’d like to try out his time traveling device. I said, “Doc – I have absolutely nothing to do. No job. No need for a nap (just took one.) Kids are basically raising themselves. I’ve got lots of original ideas – I’m your Huckleberry.
<I jump into a convertible Chrysler – this baby owns the space/time continuum.>
Doc: Where to, chief?
Me: Wherever. Let’s do this thing.
<Dramatic entrance! Smoke! Fire! Cool science-y sounds! And some lightning. End up face to face with myself circa 2009. (Shittier plot lines exist – don’t judge me)>
Future Steve: Oh. Hey. Don’t be alarmed. It’s me. I mean you. From the future. Thought I was going to change the world. Guess I’ll talk to you (me) instead.
Young Steve: I’ve never felt so important. This seems really logical. Good to meet you/ me? I’m not alarmed at all.
FS: Good. Since I’m here, how’s about I chat you up you about stuff, and whatever. Especially as it might relate to kids, since I (we?) have a couple of them.
YS: A couple, eh? I’ve got some sex coming my way. Sweet!
FS: Yeah, you wind up with a clone of Lucy. Except she likes to sleep.
YS: Word. Does Lucy ever start sleeping?
FS: When she’s 4.
YS: 4? I give that a fart noise and two thumbs down. So, what’s the deal here? I can ask you anything?
FS: Might as well. Shoot.
YS: What happens to mom?
FS: Jesus dude. For real? That’s how you want to kick this thing off?
YS: Fine, you got some winning lotto numbers or something? Who wins the Super bowl?
FS: I think we both saw Back to the Future 2, and neither one of us would feel comfortable sharing or knowing that information.
YS: We are hella smart.
FS: Ya heard?
YS: Ya feel me?!
FS: Mom dies.
YS: Whoa dude! Sucker punch to the dick. Keep those gloves up champ.
FS: My bad. I’ll work on my bedside manner.
YS: Jesus. How’s it go down? When’s this shit taking place?
FS: Don’t spend your time worrying about it. Just have fun until then.
YS: Fair enough. I figure I’ve got up to 10 years left?
FS: What do you mean?
YS: You’ve gotta be like 40, or something. And I’m only 30. So, you know … math.
FS: 40!? Fuck dude. Try 34.
YS: Say what?! What’s with the grey beard and hair?
FS: I just told you—Lucy doesn’t sleep until she’s 4 and mom dies. Enjoy your rapidly fading beauty.
YS: I am beautiful.
FS: No matter what they say.
YS: Whoa. Did you just quote Christina Aguilera?
FS: I might have just done that. I did, in fact. Yes.
YS: Is that what I listen to in the future? Very cool. That statement brought to you by sarcasm.
FS: You got jokes.
YS: Plus good looks, and athleticism too. Maybe a mild case of future depression.
FS: Guess what dick head. You’re about to blow your knee out.
YS: Biff. For reals?
FS: Yeah–sorry dude. It sucks.
YS: Give me some good news.
FS: Ok, here’s some helpful shit: The popular dances you should learn are called, the Dougie, the Bernie, and the Stanky Leg.
YS: On it. Will I be invited to any Bar Mitzvahs in order to show off these new moves sometime in the near future?
FS: No. Maybe make some adolescent Jewish friends. Actually—that’s some good advice. Thank you for helping me help you.
FS: All days, all ways.
YS: I like your style.
FS: I like how you handle your business, boss.
YS: Ok, young Jewish friends. What else?
FS: You should work on your language management around the kids.
YS: Yeah? They have some foul mouths?
FS: I blame their mother, but I did hear Lucy call her sister a “silly little bitch” yesterday.
YS: What? Are we allowed to say “bitch” in the future? I thought Marie wouldn’t let us?
FS: Still can’t say bitch. Or the P-word. But Lucy heard it from somewhere.
YS: What did you say to her?
FS: I told her not to say that word, and she responded by calling her sister a funny little bitch. Couldn’t tell if she was fucking with me. I’m guessing yes. Get used to that.
YS: How’s Dad?
FS: You’re not gonna believe this. He’s totally still alive. He doesn’t eat much. I’d say he survives through some form of photosynthesis, but I can’t be sure.
YS: Well, that’s cool, I guess. And Michael?
FS: Great. He’s gonna be a doctor. Married Lindsay. They just had a kid. Named him Chappie!
YS: I can dig it. So he’s a doctor? Baller. What are you?
FS: A writer.
YS: Get the F out. What are we writing?
FS: A blog.
YS: Oh. You mean a “writer.”
FS: Yeah. Actually, we’re unemployed. Maybe consider not quitting your job.
YS: Noted. What else are we up to?
FS: We play on a gay hockey team?
YS: I’m … gay?
FS: No, but most of the guys on the team are. They think you’re gay though. Probably has something to do with the pink shorts and polka-dot shoes I wore to the first game.
FS: Maybe consider getting in better shape. I’m not the player I used to be.
YS: Done. How ’bout I start running?
FS: Trust me.
YS: So, let me get this straight. Don’t say the word “bitch” around Lucy. I’m going to blow my knee out. I’m sort of fat, have grey hair and a grey beard. I no longer have a job. Mom is dead, and Dad has turned into a plant. I catch everything?
FS: Yeah. And you’re really happy. Sounds a little crazy, but I want you to know that despite some shit coming your way, you’re still going to be really happy. The next kid totally helps. Marie is fantastic. No earthquakes, so that’s good. And, the Packers win a super bowl.
FS: Ok, don’t bet on it. Butterfly effect and all.
YS: All right, player. Thanks for the heads up. Be seeing you boss.
FS: Later young buck.
Please contact the Big Avocado for filming rights. Address can be found in the “About the Avocado” section. I think. If not, just leave a comment. I check every couple minutes.
– The Big Avocado(s)