What follows is an open letter intended for the perusal of a Mr Duane Doyle, delivered to the offices of The Sceptical Poet by a mysterious man in suit and sunglasses…
This is your grandson, Nathan. You’ve never met me because I’ve not been born yet. Don’t get arsey with with the space-time continuum by trying to stop that coming to pass ‘just to see what happens’. I’ve seen all the old sci-fi films and they’re full of that shit. Self-destructive bunch, you old-timers. Once we invented time travel, we realised it was good form not to risk destroying time on account of it being an important part of the universe. People didn’t invent cars and then start deliberately running people over. No-one knows what happens if you create a paradox, and no-one wants to know, so don’t be that person!
Anyway, I’ve sent this letter back in time via the time-travel-telegraph system to tell you one important thing:
Don’t buy that plot on the moon you saw on groupon for £15.
I’ve just arrived at the moon after months of travelling, and they’re saying I can’t land because apparently everything’s owned by China, Donald Trump and Costa. I’m recording this message using my last five minutes of oxygen. This is it. I’m dying because you bought something no-one owned from someone who claimed to own it. So: don’t buy a plot on the moon!
What were you thinking?
We have all your internet records, you know. We know all about the electric toothbrushes, cheap holidays and massages, not to mention the rampant rabbit vibrator and the porn subscription (You should see This Is Your Life in our time. It’s a riot). We have all your money records. Why exactly did you give so much money to a local Thai massage parlour? £50 a month to UKIP? Didn’t you guys realise that every stupid thing you do is now recorded for posterity in some format?
I came all the way out here for nothing. Maybe I’m the stupid one. Mum saved for years so I could afford the trip. I said, “Mum, don’t you think this certificate of ownership looks a bit cheap?” She said: “That’s just the way paper looked in the early twenty-first century. Your Grandad might have the internet history of a randy, racist dickcrumpet, but he wouldn’t waste money on a fake plot deed for the moon.”
Well, you did. And now I’m dead.
So, one more time: don’t buy a plot on the moon!
And while we’re at it, tell Dad not to be such a bellend when he’s older.
Bye (forever, because I’m suffocating to death),
Nathan (your Grandson. Probably. I’ve heard rumours).