I can admit it when I’ve fucked up. A few months ago, I enraged the spirit of dead old fat jumpsuit Elvis by forgetting the King’s birthday. You just don’t do things like that unless you want to wake up in an ectoplasmic glaze of banana pudding and sweat.
It was a selfish thing to do and it earned me a visitation from the afterlife that sent chills down my spine. Tonight I kind of want to dream that Ian Anderson is giving me a backrub that leads to more, so I don’t have time to run around apologizing for myself. Let’s get this thing done:
Happy Birthday, Elvis Presley. I like how you used to do that thing with your lip, and I love your big gold sunglasses and your sideburns. You knew a thing or two about how to decorate the hell out of a den, and you sang “Suspicious Minds” which is the most hilarious song I’ve ever heard about infidelity. I know you’re happy now whereever you are, because nobody is riding your ass about getting in shape, and there are flowing rivers of opiates and let’s not forget Mama. I’m pouring out a can of bacon fat in your honor.
Aw, come on big fella, don’t look at me like that.
There’s my boy.
Say hi to the spirits of my ancestors for me, and crack open a big can of pork n’ beans. You’ve earned it, birthday boy.