You are a revolutionary in Colonial America who is magically transported to the “America 250” demolition derby on the White House lawn. When you return to your own time, you resolve to continue the fight regardless. But you have…doubts.

You are a 7th-century Chinese imperial on your massive pleasure barge. You are magically transported to the superyacht of a modern tech billionaire. You are confused when you learn how few slaves there are onboard to propel the vessel.

You are a 19th-century cowboy who is magically transported to the set of a 1950s Hollywood western. You are wearing your bowler, silk neckerchief, and high-waisted britches. The director tells his assistant you look “too homosexual” to be a believable extra.

You are a 14th-century clerk to the English Exchequer who is magically transported to the wood-paneled basement of a 1980s accountant. He shows you VisiCalc on his Apple II. You like it.

You are a hunter-gatherer from the Microlithic period who is magically transported to the Upper Paleolithic. You show them slightly better flint knapping techniques. They worship you as a god.

You are a modern-day goldfinch. You are magically transported back to 11th-century Sussex, on the eve of the Norman Conquest. Your life doesn’t change much.

*lying at the bottom of a mineshaft with a twisted ankle, unable to escape* Whelp, I shouldn’t have climbed down here with a twisted ankle.

People always look surprised when you throw a fish at them

I open my pathetically empty wallet and a moth flutters out. “My moth!” I shout. “I need that for bus fare!”

*checks watch* Can you believe it’s still the Anthropocene?

I didn’t fall down the stairs, I descended them in a creative order.

Studies have shown that writing your thoughts down with pen and paper instead of digitally leads to a 100% increase in the chance they will be used to line a cute little rodent’s burrow.

i don't use google. the world beyond my senses is none of my business

For no one, no one in this world can you trust. Not men, not women, not beasts. This you can trust.

Newly-released Google Street View imagery has helped authorities locate a missing Google Street View car that I stole and drove into a swamp.

I know this is a very privileged complaint, but it’s irritating that my limo driver stops the car every couple blocks and lets like half a dozen people in and out.

My darling, my love, you are an absolute

No, you misheard, what I called you was a

My dad bought a house and put 3 kids through college working at a gnome-run tin mine. He was the big chained up human that turned the wheel to lower the workers down the mineshaft

STOP

Gently lowering myself into a stratified pool at the bottom of an ocean of rumination until I slip below the threshold of contempt and into the featureless depths of indifference.

Hairdresser just said, “It’s OK, it’ll grow out,” before handing me the mirror…

Forget it, Jake. It’s SharePoint.

Dustin't

It’s a sad fact of death that the sorts of organized, sensible ghosts who complete their unfinished business and move on swiftly are exactly the sort you’d like to stay. Instead, you’ve mainly got the wretched sort, in one spot for centuries, bumping around like a fly who can’t find the open window…

Y’know, if we flattened out these plowshares… made ‘em straight and pointy… and sharpened both edges…

God PUT US HERE as COUNTERWEIGHTS to keep the GROUND from FLOATING AWAY

The meadow deer are healthier-looking than the bog deer, which demonstrates 1) the bog harbors miasmatic vapors and 2) even beasts require balanced humors.

It’s the Bog Gala tonight! I arrived on the red pine needle carpet in a (rented) tux made of dried ferns, and was immediately overshadowed by an attendee in a gown of FRESH ferns. So embarrassing.

I was relaxing on my deck when the outline of a twenty-foot-long mutated wasp hovered overhead, blocking out the sun. “Oh no,” I thought, “he’s not supposed to be here until one o’clock.”

we're seeing if grogu's entire body can fit inside the gom jabbar box

Front desk? Can I have a different key? This one has too many teeth.

Art historian: Notice in this 14th-century illumination that the figure has enlarged eyes and a diminutive mouth, indicating devout attentiveness, rather than individual expression. 14th-century monk: hee hee, drawin’ a goofy lil’ guy

Sneaking into my boss’s house to pull the 9V battery out of his clock radio

Spawn camping the coffee maker

Lashing a fork to a broom handle as a makeshift spear, painting my face in turmeric and matcha powder camouflage, lying in wait for first light to ambush the freaking SUN

Please understand that demanding something “A.S.A.P” will actually disincentivize me to act swiftly. You may as well request it “P.D.Q.” in which case I would ask you not to curse.

If a stranger talks to you while you’re listening to earbuds, take the buds out and stick your fingers in to make your position clear.

“…and my favorite color is green.” “Hi, I’m Johnny, and my favorite color is blue.” “Hi, I’m Susan, and my favorite color is fuchsia.” [me who arrived late]: I don’t understand? What are we doing

Today on the Bogcast: they’ve replaced the old, creaky, sinking bogwalk with a modern, safe, elevated walk. The charm is lost.

Fire hydrants are color-coded based on whether they dispense still or sparkling water.

Officer, show me where in the Magna Carta it says the constabulary may stop me from riling up these waterfowl with a kazoo.

I fully believe that I was an early 90s prop comic in a past life, even though I was already alive and a child by that time.

Now the workers are spray painting a bright orange pentagram on my driveway apron.

Peter Piper picked a Planck of primordial protoplasm

I drop to one knee in my mother-in-law’s kitchen, plant my palm firmly on the linoleum, and intone “I feel something… a great malevolence abides here…”

I desperately want there to be a heaven, and for everyone to get into it. I don’t believe in heaven, though, so the best I can do is look people in the eye until we either recognize each other’s shared humanity or it gets weird because I lick my lips when I’m nervous.

I am the bluetooth speaker on the hiking trail.

I am the baby at the brewery. I am the dog in the grocery store. I am the drone hovering over the sunset viewpoint.

When I was middle-school-aged, my dad fried a hash using a Coleman camp stove set on the tailgate of his rusted ’69 Chevy in a state park campground. I’m pretty sure it was just bacon, potatoes, salt, and pepper, and it was the most delicious meal I’ve ever had.