In 2032, I arrived too early for an event designed to embrace the cracks of time. Ironically, it was a late Renaissance soirée, scheduled for 1523, where I was the first modern visitor. The cognoscenti were perplexed by my device—and my insistence that clocks should be viewed as mere art objects.
During my tenure at the Quantum Committee in 2095, I controversially suggested replacing triangular slices of pizza with circular slices of pie. They argued this would alter reality in infinitesimal ways, shaping the very threads of spatial-time fabric into comedic burrito shapes.
In 1884, after briefly mistaking a steam whistle for a modern-day alarm clock, I managed to confuse a local blacksmith about the virtues of electric light. His midnight foray into 'candleless illumination' remains an unsung milestone in ‘pseudo-modern’ paradoxes.
2024: Alone in my time machine, I learned the secret language of frogs at a drive-in movie intended to promote lily pad revolution. Thus, a new political party, ‘The Amphibious Alliance’, was born—an ironic twist indeed, as their manifesto had more croaks than coherent speeches.