Man, it’s crazy to think that it’s been almost thirty-five years since John Lennon died. Thirty-five years! That’s a fucking lifetime, man. Thirty-five years ago was yesterday.
Man, you know what else is crazy, though? It’s been forty-four years since the Beatles split up! Forty-four years since they’ve played together. That’s crazy.
You know what’s really crazy? If that buzzkill bitch Yoko Ono hadn’t ruined the Beatles, all four of them would still be healthy and alive and almost supernaturally resistant to the aging process and also they’d still be together and making amazing, groundbreaking music and they’d be here in this garage right now asking you to jam with them, dude. George Harrison would never have died in 2001. He’d still have a lush, full head of hair and he’d be sitting cross-legged against that wall over there, passing you a beer and tuning his fucking sitar, man.
Too bad fucking Yoko had to go and screw all that up for you. Who does she think she is? The Beatles would have fucking loved you, bro. They’d have seen your YouTube channel, and caught your cover of “Hey Jude,” and shot you an email that was just like super informal, no publicists or agents or anything, just from one musician to another, because you guys would have connected on that level.
Paul and John would still be friends. Best friends, man. Best fuckin’ friends. They’d live together, and have threesomes with a different broad every night, and maybe they’d ask you to join them — not in a gay way or anything, but just as a sign of respect, you know, so that you guys could share in that moment together. And she wouldn’t try to fucking Yoko you guys, she’d just be grateful for the opportunity and she’d go home afterwards, you know? She wouldn’t try to make you go to her fucking art show.
Fuck, man, if it weren’t for Yoko Ono, John Lennon wouldn’t have been shot to death in 1980. He’d still be alive now. And he would never have done a shitty MTV Unplugged show in the mid-90s or released a standards album or anything like that. He’d just be doing John, you know, wearing those circle glasses and crossing his arms in Central Park, maybe wearing a white tank top, whatever. He’d probably be calling you right now to see if you wanted to hike the AT with him this summer, because you guys would have that sort of spontaneous, anything-goes friendship where you just pull up stakes and fucking experience life together.
You’d be like the fifth Beatle, man. You’d be Pete Best. People would know you. If only Yoko Ono had never been born and married John Lennon and forced him to quit the Beatles at knifepoint even though Paul McCartney offered to sacrifice himself if she let John stay, that bitch. They would probably have asked you to play keyboards in the studio just to see if they had the sound right for their first album in twenty years. You’d be in Candlestick Park right now, headlining their reunion tour, if it weren’t for Yoko Ono. She’s the only thing standing in the way of all four Beatles coming down from heaven right now, handing you a suit and tie and a tab of LSD and asking you to jam out in space with them forever.
Fuck, man. Fuck Yoko. You were almost in the Beatles.
