BEWARE THE PLAGUE OF LOCUST (fans)

BEWARE THE PLAGUE OF LOCUST (FANS)- AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL ACCOUNT FROM AN INDIE ROCK INTERNET TERRORIST.

I have to start this story by going back about 12 years... let's say 1999... A much simpler time. A time before 9-11 had occured. A time when the end of humanity was not constantly tapping us on the shoulder to remind us that the horsemen were on their way to get us. A time when people in turbans were simply referred to as "camel jockies" not terrorists. A time that the only needles that were ever stuck in my arm were to give me vaccines by doctors. A time when the Fireside Bowl was the main place to go and kids of any age could attend the shows there, and Logan Square was the "cool" neighborhood to live in in Chicago. A time where it seemed like every rock show I did attend seemed to revolve around one type of music and style where people dressed in all black, with pants that fit like a second skin, and everyone had black hair that was perfectly coiffed and hairsprayed into a beautiful work of art that was often referred to as "the spock". A time when people cared about their appearance and were all skinny and beautiful and fashion mattered and clothing was not just some semen covered shit smelling rag that you threw over your body just to cover up your fat rolls or track marks or whatever pockmarked venerial disease that covers your body. Kids CARED about their appearance. It took TIME to fix their hair and butter and squirm their fat legs into their way too skinny pants. You used to be able to trace the outlines of every hair, vein, and wrinkle of the phallices of the barely post pubescent males that frequented the Fireside Bowl in their tight black pants..... A friday night at the Fireside Bowl presented a scene that NAMBLA, as a collective entity, could not even imagine if they used even the most super superior superb pervert old man boy loving imaginations... OOOh.... If I had only lost my 'rape virginity' earlier, if I was the twisted perverse broken down hooker trash freak that I am today what I would do to those boys would make Marquis DeSade himself weep... Those wonderful boys.... That fashion.... My unscarred arms.... the in tact twin towers.... ((FINALLY HAD TO MASTURBATE TO THAT LAST ONE)). A simpler time... an easier time... THE GREATEST GENERATION. And then there was HIM. At the center of this hot new ultra cool nambla cock dripping style seemed to be ONE BAND... ONE MAN... THE KING OF THE SPOCKS... HIM... THE MERE UTTERANCE OF HIS NAME WOULD SHATTER EVERY PIECE OF GLASS IN A ROOM... To bask in a mere image of him would surely cause a Jihad amongst the most peaceful of Buddhist monks... And trying to possibly recant being in HIS UBER DIVINE BEYOND GODLIKE Presence, myself being an inferior jackall of a mortal with a penchant for stringing language together and every word in the english language to possibly describe it (it being, being in HIS PRESENCE, if you forgot, I did) I would not even dare attempt to. Mick Jagger be DAMNED... David Bowie, heh, David SMHOWIE... JESUS WHO?... The BURST OF PHEREMONES alone when JUSTIN PEARSON entered a room would make every female within a fifteen mile radius squirt so hard and so violently that San Diego, CA, the holyland where HE chose to reside, suffered from a bout of massive floods of female jism. In fact in the summer of 1998, it is a little known fact and is said to be a government coverup that the San Diego neighborhood where HE resided, Hillside, had to be raised 300 feet above sea level due the frequency at which he was seen and the sheer amount of cum that at once engulfed it. The government paid 30 billion dollars to do this because they knew that this UBER DIETY needed a residence. Just like you or I! and they quickly constructed an invisible mountain so that HE may walk around his neighborhood safely without danger of the homes being engulfed by the involuntary squirting of sooo many woman. HIS NAME WAS JUSTIN PEARSON... such a modest name for SUCH A PERFECT BEING. A reliable source claims that he was born with his proper moniker Perfect McPerfect Ubersexy Rockstar Makesyoucuminyourpants, but he changed it because he chose to walk the earth with the mortals and his modesty was fierce. His Band, as if I even need to say the name, as if man woman or child walking the planet does not know, was called THE LOCUST. There is no need for me to go into their story... Everyone knows how the band was formed... the volcano, the second coming of Muhammed, the pentium 6 guitar that fell from niburu that Pearson caught with his 45 inch unerect phallus, we all know how they were formed. IT HAS BEEN WRITTEN. And I am no prophet, so I need not write it again. And for that year 1999, many brainless fools unfortunately got the mark of the Locust tattooed upon them in an effort to get into their numerous live (I would hate to merely call them shows) shows free of charge. The attempts were all in vein because what these poor fools could not grasp is that the mark of the Locust could NEVER make them what they wanted to be, or save them 8 bux on a Saturday night. Justin Pearson was of course BORN with the mark of THE LOCUST and a stupid plagarized tattoo of the band would never bring them closer to HIM. But, what can be said about humans except that we are flawed. The man was a God walking the earth, not unlike the HOPE DIAMOND IN A PORT-O-LET. How could we not want to look, dress, act, talk, walk, fuck, smell, drive, order food, open a door, pull out a chair, play baseball, hold a fork, eat a hamburger, remove a sock, step on a nail, wear a kimono, cook a hotdog, smack your son, laugh at a fat lady falling down at wal-mart, or play guitar like this "person" who embodied everything that was everything about rock and roll, sex appeal, and penis size?. Again... We are humans... WE ARE FLAWED... It was JUST A different time THEN. A different time..... I mean like you know the internet had barely been invented, It was all about raw sex and love back then... It was not the ugly dog orifice of a deathtrap we unwillingly drag our sick lonely bodies to get violently ass raped at our siberian death camps they like to call jobs and try with every muscle that still barely works in our dying bodies to perhaps crack something sadly resembling a smile to convince ourselves that this cold wasteland that we suffer through day in and day out is worth rolling our cum soaked emaciated bodies out of our vermin infested beds each day to live this life... Yep. A different time. 1999. A time when Justin Pearson and the Locust ruled the FUCKING GALAXY!!!!.

END OF PART 1.