Choose Your Own
Fucking Adventure back to the few-chure days past yesterday of tomorrow
Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! Wipe that sauce off your shirt and gimme a big hug, buddy. Because the CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE section is back, and I’m your minimum-wage working, apprehensively optimistic guide. I can already sense your excitement. And you should be excited, fam. For the both of us. Because today, we’re getting in the Portal™ to take a little trip to the fantastic world of OUR WORLD, BUT BEFORE. We’re not going to a WHERE. We’re going to a WHEN. Are you loving this drama? Pack your fucking—pack some ELECTROLYTE WATER and PROTEIN BARS, meat bag. It’s time for time, and her travel, in this week’s adventure: This Isn’t the Renonaissance.
START HERE! The exact year is unknown, but you can be sure that it’s the past as fuck. You’re surrounded by dead grass. You need some defense! After all, you are a fragile bag of meat and probably have poor vision; you’re a walking Hot Pocket except instead of delicious microwaveable goodness, it’s blood. You find a large STICK in the dirt (now equipped!) you can use in case some someone gets the wrong idea and starts fucking up the wrong tree. Wandering through the plains, you eventually find a chain of MOUNTAINS. Carved into the mountains are some CAVES. Nice big caves. Seeing the faint glow of a FIRE, you head into one of the smaller caves. Seated in a circle around the fire are a group of NEANDERTHALS. They turn their heads to catch a glimpse of you before returning to what held their attention previously: a large stack of smooth, rectangular stones. “Ungg,” one says, pointing to a tablet. You’re close enough to see it now: it is covered with strange symbols and carvings. Something that could only be deciphered by big, stupid monkey
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men. They point at one of their friends and break out into peals of shrieking, howling laughter. “Hello,” you say. They stop laughing and look at you. One turns to his friend, sitting next to him. “Ba ung a innga? Ma hu ungga ugh?” The caveman turns to you. “He comedy writer. Stand up. Make us laugh. Lots of in-jokes.” You have seen enough. If you choose to go to Ancient Greece, go to PARAGRAPH 2. If you choose to go to Medieval England, go to PARAGRAPH 3.
PARAGRAPH 2 Still reeling from your encounter with what could have quite possibly been the invention of podcasting, you step out of the Portal™ onto a bed of white sand. You march your little butt up a sandy embankment, your tired footsies sore in your sneakers. After a while, you reach a street paved with BIG ROCKS. At the end sits a MARKETPLACE, an open Acropolis of sorts. You’re in Greece. Nice! The marketplace is bustling with people that all take just a second to marvel at your ugly fucking fandom t-shirt and your weird haircut. This is the best you’ve felt about yourself since the time that girl in your Media Ethics class with all the pins on her backpack told you your presentation on incorporating the libertarian non-aggression principle into mainstream media was “really interesting.” Everyone has their noses buried in what look like large scrolls. They’re laughing. You find a stand and pull a scroll out of a basket. You can’t read Greek, but “ανοησίες” combined with peals of hysterical laughter usually means some kind of comedy. You do history a favor; you throw the scroll on the ground and stomp on it. Curses! You’re allergic to everything, drink too much beer and don’t get any exercise: travelling is not for you! Especially when there’s no cell service or Quizno’s. You have to stop this shit at all costs.