The year is 1966, and Jon, Paul, and George are all convinced it's just the LSD. You and Ringo know better. In a horrifying Kafkaesque twist of fate, you know that your favorite band has been struck by a strange case of metamorphosis.
The Beatles have all turned into beetles. Was God annoyed by their seemingly clever pun, or was it just a random cosmic quirk in the universe? You can never really know for sure. What you do know is that little music comes from them nowadays. Just the irritating fluttering sound of their wings flapping at a rate of one gazillion times a second. Nowadays Ringo just likes to climb up and down your ficus, chewing on the leaves. And Paul? He spends his days flying from one side of the wall to the next and back. He doesn't even remember his old identity as a musician.
Imagine it...a world with no White Album, its easy if you try. No Let it Be, only a Hard Day's Night. Imagine no Sgt Pepper, it isn't hard to do. No Yellow Submarine, no Abbey Road too.
Now you know.
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