Elvis Aaron Presley was born on January 8, 1935, meaning he would be a ripe old 69 Thursday if he hadn't of died from a combination of a heart condition, prescription drug use, and possibly one too many fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. What would have happened if the King of Rock 'n' Roll had been on Atkins? We can only speculate ... and then print the results.
A Little more conversation
That was the third maid in as many months. Lisa Marie looked at her father with exasperation; she only had a few days to visit on a break from touring, and she didn't want to spend them rehiring the help. "You need more patience, Dad," she said to him.
"That woman couldn't even speak English," he responded, laid out on the couch. "And she thought I sang 'Great Balls of Fire.'"
Lisa Marie ignored the comment. "Nic and I are going out for a bit," she said. "Do you need anything?"
"No thanks, hon," he said. "Could you put on 'Heartbreak Hotel' before you leave?"
If Elvis Were Alive, He'd Be ...
... the latest addition to the city's fleet of promotional blimps.
... ekeing out a living from third- and fourth-place finishes in Elvis impersonation contests.
... knocking 'em dead with dramatic readings of "In the Ghetto" at open-mike poetry nights.
... starring in infomercials for the Elvis Presley Deep-Fryer: "Cooks a delicious peanut-butter and bacon sandwich in seconds, sealing in all the fatty goodness!"
... blogging about his daily hassles and irritable bowel syndrome.
... post-Atkins, waging a one-man war on the postal service for even proposing a fat-Elvis stamp.
... wait, you're suggesting he's not alive? Suckers!
Move Over, Howard Dean
Obviously, Elvis would be doing Pilates, having relations of the flesh with Diane Sawyer, and leading the Democratic ticket in 2004. President Presley, that's what the world needs. He made his second fortune as a diet and fitness guru in the '80s, alongside Jane Fonda (manly-man aerobics—Jailhouse Jocks), and his third fortune in the '90s as a real estate developer (Graceland-Phoenix Inc., Graceland-Palm Springs Inc., Graceland-Las Vegas Inc.—A Carpeted Ceiling Community You Can Trust … Try Our Jungle Room Model!). After donating one-third of his net worth to public education and another third toward overthrowing the rotten-bastard pharmaceutical/health insurance industry, he hit the campaign trail. First, it was a quick gig as a California assemblyman (what, you thought he'd stay in Tennessee?)—a political journey only briefly marred by accusations that he had something to do with the mysterious disappearance of his daughter's then-husband, some pop star. But scandals pass, people forget, and the nation yearns for a rock 'n' roll leader. Today, he's looking svelte, endorsing organic peanut butter 'n' bananas, and preparing to pull the troops out of Iraq. Vote Presley.
But where would Arte work?
Howard: "So whaddaya think, Elvis? Should she win the breast implants?"
Elvis: "I dunno, Howard. She's kind of a hound dog, don't ya think?"
Howard: "Yeah, she's a buttaface, but what about the boobies?"
Elvis: "I don't wanna be cruel, but they're kinda droopy."
Howard: "OK, what about her ass?"
Elvis: "Huge. That's a hunk and a half of burnin' love."
Howard: "So, Elvis, whaddaya say, would ya do her?"
Elvis: "I don't think I could love her tender, that ass leaves me all shook up, and with those breasts, she could never be my teddy bear. Besides, she looks like a hard-headed woman. I'll bet she's the devil in disguise."
Howard: "So the final verdict?"
Elvis: "I'd rather be lonesome tonight. Return to sender."
Popcorn and toilet seats
As the official popcorn popper at the Elvis museum, the King gets the best of both worlds. He eats buttery morsels by the handful (great remedy for getting off the smack), straightens the meatloaf magnets and hums along to his greatest hits, gives pointers to the impersonators, and listens to his fans' conspiracy theories about him faking his own death. At night, he runs his Internet squishy toilet-seat company, Fallen from Graceland. The company's motto is "Better get comfy. You never know which BM will be your last."
Waiting for the call
Elvis stared ruefully down the Strip at the Frontier's sign from his table in The Foundation Room. He remembered his days as Giley's headline mud wrestler, along with Brando. The two of them in their black Speedos, slamming belly into belly as Robin Leach screamed into the mike, red-faced, spittle flying. The Rebel and The King. That's how the marquee used to read. He swirled his Wild Turkey around, watching the sweet liquor wash up, cling and slide back down in the glass. Fat and filthy, it didn't matter to the girls. Sweet, young darlins. And they did things Priscilla never would. The town was theirs, the three of them, him, Bud and Leach. All doors were open. Nothing was denied. Now look. His voice shot. His knees gone. His hair gone, too. He swallowed the bourbon, feeling it run down his waddled throat, and touched his cell. Maybe those Surreal Life people would call back.
The Throne
"You're, you're," the Palms casino attendant mutters. "You're, you're," he babbles while unhanding the leather suitcase from the old man in the blue suede shoes, white-sequined, bell-bottomed suit—gray hair peeking out the V-neck slit—and dark glasses. "You're, you're," he jabbers, elbowing Britney and Leo to the back of elevator. "You're, you're," he rants, as he unloads a guitar, a bag filled with rustled pictures that say "I love Priscilla," a letter titled "F—k you, Little Richard, I created rock 'n' roll" and a bunch of janitorial supplies onto the floor of the Real World suite. "You're, you're … you're the King." To which Elvis replies, "No shit," and heads to the bathroom, Windex, Comet and toilet scrubber in hand.
Say it isn't so
The thought of Elvis performing today is just horrifying. When he finally left the building, with a metaphoric kick in the ass out the door from punk, it was about time. His drug-addled Vegas shows were as pathetic and bloated as his body. His recording career was at a standstill, in large part because of his pathological fear of the studio and his evaporating self-confidence as a vocalist. All that a longer life seemed to offer were opportunities to heap further indignities upon his legacy as the greatest rock singer of all time. I have a nightmare in which Elvis lives into the '80s and beyond. He dresses worse than Cyndi Lauper in the We Are the World video, and has a horrendous appearance at the last Woodstock, just after Limp Bizkit's set. It isn't all bad. His Unplugged is a huge hit, and the Graceland episode of Cribs is the stuff of legends. But I wake up screaming with a final image of the King trading tongues with Justin Timberlake on an MTV awards show still burning in my mind.