Elvis has left the building

Hi poopy pantses. School starts tomorrow, so I figured I should get a leg up on a farewell post, considering that even when I had two weeks’ vacation I ended up writing, maybe, two whole posts. I’m obviously not going to get a lot of leisure writing done while school’s in session. Leisure rhymes with pleasure and that starts with… oh, I can’t be bothered with thinking until I have to.

Obviously, as personal history indicates, my departure isn’t permanent. But my appearances will be intermittent, kind of like Elvis’s, only way less marked in that no one cares as much about seeing me, plus, he’s got more chins than I do. You know what? Elvis is COOL. I mean, he is HOT. And when I say he’s got more chins than me, I mean that boy is PHAT. If I had lived way back when, I would have totally been in love with him, too.

Since we’re speaking of Elvis, I’m going to let you in on a little family legend, only one that’s true. Once upon a time, I could have been Elvis’s daughter. Yes huh! When my mom was a gorgeous teenager in the ’50s, she went to visit Graceland with her friend Francis and Francis’s parents, who dropped them off at the gates so they could walk around the outside of them, looking cute in their best poodle skirts and penny loafers. (At that time, obviously, Elvis hadn’t gone into hiding yet. Please don’t interrupt me again.) My mom and Francis were peering through the wrought-iron bars when they noticed two older men walking towards them, from across Graceland’s expansive grounds. The older men introduced themselves as - ta da - get ready: Elvis’s dad, and Elvis’s uncle, whose names escape me and which I could find out by Googling if I was a responsible journalist but I’m not so I won’t. Let’s just call them Bub, and Billy Bo-Bub Buford, when we have to call them anything at all.

Anyway, this story’s already too long. In short, my mom and her friend were chatted up by the Bubs, and consequently invited to a party that night, featuring Elvis, in the mansion itself - but Francis’s father, a Baptist preacher in a tiny little California town, forbade them to go in no uncertain terms, and since he had the keys to the Buick they were stuck. The Saints Can Be Praised for that, however, considering what-all we know now about Elvis and his “parties”, but at the time it was a sore disappointment. Especially to me, as you can well imagine, whose primary destiny was to have been as Princess of something, before said destiny took a sharp turn into oblivion. Then, there was the danger of having to’ve been the one to find “Daddy” strung-out, dead, and lying with his pants down next to the pooper. That would have sucked, so I guess it all turned out for the best.*

Hey, don’t laugh. My mom was even prettier than that Priscilla Ann Wagner person, and roughly the same age. Fourteen, was it? Ahem. Moving right along. Which is what I need to do. You guys, have a great four months. I love you oodles.

* Also, I could have ended up married to Michael Jackson.