I’m Dead. Damned Dead!

By Elvis Aron Presley

Pretty soon a bunch of you fans are gonna do that annual gathering thing around Graceland marking the anniversary of my “reported” death. I appreciate that – I really do – even though the candlelight vigil looks more and more like a Tubby Polyester Zombie Take Back The Night march every year. With that in mind, I thought I’d take the opportunity now to say so, so all y’all figure out once and for all that I am dead.

Really. I’m wormshit. There was no Kalamazoo Burger King deal, I’m not hiding out with JFK in the secret corners of Hef’s grotto, I ain't singing naked Karaoke with the aliens – all the reports from August 1977 are the God’s honest truth.

Think about it – if I were gonna stage my own death, would I have set it up to look like I had a heart attack while straining too hard to pinch off a grogan? Would the King of Rock and Roll arrange an exit where his last earthy act puts his drawers down around his ankles and flashes Jesus his fruitbowl? C’mon now – I’d have come up with something more dignified than that. Trust me – if I wasn’t dead before, Colonel Tom Parker would have hunted my ass down and killed me anyway for such a stunt!

So yes, I am dead. Where am I now? I’m not so sure. I’ve spent the last 29 years “enjoying” my earthly legacy – watching hundreds of undertalented schmucks jump around in sequined jumpsuits and yodel my songs for money, seeing my daughter marry a noseless kid-head-licking mutant, witnessing a Japanese Prime Minister adoringly serenade the US President with his awful Japo-warbled version of “I Want You, I Need You, I Love You” – all with no Jack Daniels or Quaaludes in sight. They keep telling me I’m in Heaven, but I haven’t seen any angels and this stone-sober freak show ain’t much of an eternal reward.