So I am flipping through the channels the other day and what do I see? That’s right. Fear Factor from 2003. It’s hard to believe, but they have that show on reruns. Anyway, I stopped to watch the contestants eat some testicles (probably goat balls is my guess) and while watching I marveled again at the ascendance of Joe Rogan. I mean, what viewer of Fear Factor could possibly imagined that this guy would one day be weighing on a national healthcare debate. From testicle purveyance to vaccine expert in just a couple of short decades. If only I had a time machine to go back and tell my younger self what would happen.

Weedledeedeeweedledeedeeweedledeedee (That’s the sound of my time machine. Don’t criticize. I don’t see your time machine anywhere. Read the Man in the Arena again, jerk.)

There I am, twenty years ago in the past. What a handsome devil. Weedledeedeeweedledeedee. My time machine becomes evident on the physical plane of 2003.

“Holy shit,” 2003 me says. I (formerly) jump up, prepared to defend myself. The time machine shudders to a stop, a cloud of smoke hisses as the current me disembarks.

“Who the hell are you?” 2003 me asks. It’s a natural question. I was so intelligent, even in my early 30s.

“I’m you.” I pause for dramatic effect and also because I am a trifle nauseous from time travel. “From the future,” I whisper/hiss. Also for dramatic effect.

“What the hell?” 2003 me says. Former me is a little suspicious. After all, he knows that physics says that time travel can only go forward. “That can’t be. The arrow of time only goes forward,” 2003 me says. See, I told you he knew.

I shake my head and chuckle. “Things have changed. I don’t want to get overly technical, but that wasn’t right.”

“No shit,” says 2003 me. I can tell he is scrutinizing me to see if I am the real McCoy.

I chuckle again. “It’s me. Or rather you. In twenty years.”

2003 me screws up his face. “It’s only been twenty years? And you look like that? What the hell? Have you been doing heroin for the last decade?”

My chuckling comes to a stop. “I think that is a little harsh.” Cheeky bastard. Wait until he’s 53.

“Really? What happened to your- our- hair?”

I rub my hand self-consciously through my locks. “What’s the matter with my hair?”

“A bunch of it is gone. And what is there isn’t even the right color.”

I shake my head. “That’s not important right now. I have something of great interest to tell you.”

2003 me leans in expectantly. “I hope that it is that hair can be replaced in twenty years.”

“Enough about my hair,” I reply. “Anyway, do you know the guy Joe Rogan from the show Fear Factor?”

“The host of that show where they eat goat balls?”

“That’s the one.”

“How is this going to be important?” 2003 me says impatiently.

“Because Joe Rogan eventually becomes a radio host who makes hundreds of millions of dollars. And he ends up influencing millions of people to not take a vaccine,” I add, triumphantly.

“What? Who in the hell is so stupid that they don’t get vaccinated? Didn’t they ever see pictures of smallpox?”

“This exactly what I say,” I reply. The resemblance to my own thoughts is eerie.

“What a second. Why are vaccines so important in twenty years?” 2003 me asks.

“No worries. You’ll find out,” I reply.

“It sounds like you people are pretty stupid in the future. I guess we can rule out flying cars and universal health insurance.”

My 2003 me is a little more arrogant than I remember. It is easy to be arrogant when you have all of your hair. I consider telling him about the open heart surgery that is coming his way, just to take him down a peg. But I let him off the hook.

“If you think that’s bad, wait until you see who gets elected president in 2016.”

“Who is it?” 2003 me asks, looking a bit depressed.

“I shouldn’t say. But it is Donald Trump.”

“What? That tabloid moron guy? You have to be kidding me.”

“I wish I were.”

“You know, I thought that you were here to help me in the future, like give me a sports almanac or something.”

“I don’t think that it would be wise to give you information that could change your future.”

“Why not? Did you do something really stupid in the future?”

Weedledeedee weedledeedee weedledeedee.

1983 me is shooting baskets in the driveway. Swish. Swish. Swish. Pre-puberty me is awesome.

“Hello, young me,” I say cheerfully as I exit the time machine.

“What the hell?” 1983 me says, backing toward the house. “Who the hell are you and where did you come from?”

“I’m you. From the future. Like Michael J. Fox.”

“The guy from Family Ties?”

“Oh, yeah,” I reply. “You aren’t that far yet.”

“What do you want?”

“I told you. I am you from the future.”

1983 edges closer to the door. “I don’t believe you. Look at your hair.”

“What?”

“There is no way I lose that much hair. Or gain that much weight. What are you, 60 or something?”

“You’re as bad as 2003 me. I guess it was genetic.”

“I don’t think I should be talking to you, whoever you are.”

“I told you. I am future you.”

“That’s really depressing, grandpa.”

I pause. I thought I would think this was really cool. “You know, I’m doing this for you.”

“That sounds a little weird. I think I need to head inside,” 1983 me says.

I shake my head. “Ok. Just go tell mommy.” I kick at the dirt from the past.

“Stupid little baby.”