Like many of you I sometimes lie awake at night, heart pounding, mind racing over age-old questions such as:

Am I a good person?

Am I doing the right thing?

and of course

If I time-traveled to the tenth century, how do I make a car?

Honestly, the modern man is as useful as a platypus or a sock you find under a bush in the park (not underwear––at least you can use that). Our fathers grew up re-wiring ignitions using bark and a sewing needle and making their clothes from living bears. They had to kill a deer with their fists and write poetry in iambic pentameter before they turned sixteen. Today’s dandified man of thirty is only familiar with bacon because it was featured in last month’s Maxim and wouldn’t know a carburetor if it fell on him from orbit (killing the young scamp of course, making it pointless to keep yelling at him, DAD). Modern man has an app for everything, apart from an app to tell me to stop looking for an app for that. If women ever design a furniture-moving robot that opens jars, our species will become extinct.

Which is why the scenario of having to make a car in medieval times frightens me. Men imagine that we are superheroes gracing you with our presence, but time-travel back to 1100 A.D. and Chad TwiddleFist would have as much impact on society as a terminally depressed goat. Less, because you can’t milk or eat him. Chad would spend his days trying to make an iPhone from reeds and offal. After years of effort he would be patted on the head for remembering how to make a basket from that one time in Cub Scouts.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is, Chad, stop reading this and start tearing apart your Corolla’s fuel pump.

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