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Summary
Say a hipster is chatting you up at an otherwise boring party--one of those homely types who'd have been out of luck had Weezer not brought nerd chic back. He tells you how he once built a time machine. Nothing fancy, just a garden-variety thing. He went back about fifty years, hoping to get laid at Woodstock, and ended up sexing up this hot guy he picked up at a Joni Mitchell concert. Hot Guy turned out to be the hipster's dad, who, convinced away from the straight side of the Force, moved to San Francisco, started wearing leather chaps, and never met the hipster's mom--and the hipster abruptly ceased to exist.
As luck would have it, though, this act of inadvertent suicide worthy of a Darwin Lifetime Achievement Award made it so that the hipster never traveled back in time in the first place, thus ensuring that his father followed the straight and narrow, married the hipster's mom, and sired their 2.5 kids, the youngest of whom went on to build a time machine, seduce his young, bearded father, and kick-start the entire chain of events that led to this self-perpetuating time paradox. "In fact," says the hipster, playing with the lime in his midori sour, "I'm probably not even here at all."
Is he right?