I’m not a Gambler. I know when to fold, walk away AND run.


See, this is why I don’t mess around with time machines.

I know they are a technological marvel and probably the best invention since Doc Marten’s Air Cushioned Sole and blah-blah-blah, but I still don’t trust them.  

Actually, to clarify:  I don’t trust my luck with them.  I’m sure they work perfectly fine.  I’ll bet that you or someone you know has had just a grand time zipping around through the continuum with no McFly-like McFuckups.

But me?   I just know that I’d be all giddy, setting the clock for sometime in the 1930’s (so I could get myself a really dapper hat), then I’d flip the nozzle, or pull the lever, or however it works, and bam:  I’m find myself in these guys’ clubhouse in 1974 Detroit.

I would find this unpleasant because a) no dapper hat for me, and b) I would be terrified.

I would be terrified because I am pretty certain I would be severely beaten.  I’m certain they’d stomp me because:  I’m white.  I am waaaaay whiter than any of those guys and odds are, they wouldn’t like that too much.

I’m not being racist.  I’m just saying:  due to my being white, they’d understandably assume I am a racist.  And then beat me.

Plus, I wasn’t invited.

And it’s too bad because they look like nice guys.  And a few of them even have some swell hats.

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