When the people from the future arrive to change the current course of history, I hope I’m there. I hope I’m sharply dressed and had a good breakfast. I hope they speak English, or else I know I’ll end up talking too loud and describing time travel by desperately pointing at my watch.
When I see the wormhole in space-time, and the dazzling light shoots out, it will be a momentous occasion. It’ll change the course of history. I wonder if I should take my selfie with my phone or even bring my real camera. Either way, that picture is going to make a sweet meme about getting high.
It’s possible that our government would demand to know the future peoples’ nationality, in which case I’ll be interested to see where they’re from. If they’re from another country—let’s say Syria—I hope our diplomats don’t impulsively shove them back into the wormhole, because our track record on that sort of thing isn’t great. I hope we can compromise. For example, we’ll accept their species-saving technology if they promise not make our president point out Syria on a map. It would be hard to explain why he’s confidently yelling “Finland” and jabbing the future people with his forefinger.
If the people from the future are Syrian, I hope our diplomats don’t say something dumb. I hope we can produce a cogent question about the space-time continuum and don’t just blurt out that our old neighbor was also Syrian.
When they give their first big speech about why they returned to our time in particular, I hope it’s in a stadium with smoke machines and lasers. I hope its like a frickin’ Bon Jovi concert in there. If they get all sanctimonious about how we pushed the species to the brink of extinction, I hope someone snatches the mic and starts singing “Livin’ On A Prayer.” Then the future people can watch from the back in silence as we jam out. It’ll be a good reminder for them that people from our time can party like there’s no tomorrow.
Whatever their plan is to change the course of history, I hope it doesn’t turn out to be a lot of work. I’m willing to blow up a building or riot with friends, but I don’t want to be up all night. I still have a lot of TV to catch up on before the world ends.
I hope that the future people are friendly and that we have time to talk. Perhaps I can remind them of the good things from this era, such as last week’s meme. In exchange, they could give me pointers on how to succeed in the future, like how to outrun a hungry squid monster. I would also like to know which improvised weapons will be in vogue, so I can start to practice their skills now. I don’t want to be the last one chosen for raiding parties because I’m known to fumble a Murder Hammer.
Maybe from this dialogue we could become friends. We could get ice cream cones and bike to the pool on hot summer days, and my new friends will cry because they don’t have to wear a gas mask and there’s so much water that kids can just stand in it and pee. I’ll pat them on the back and tell them to shut up, because their sobs are attracting attention and I’m self-conscious about my figure in this swimsuit.
Most of all, when the people from the future arrive, I hope they say that all is not lost. I hope they say inspiring things like, “We still believe tomorrow will be better if only because it should be.” And, “Yes, the next Star Wars is actually pretty good.” That will give me hope for our future.
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