Wednesday, January 14, 2015

I’m a little dump truck dropping a load.

In the bathroom dropping a load thinking about Elvis in the bathroom dropping a load and then dying.
Or maybe he wasn’t even in the bathroom to crap and just enjoyed some solitary time in the crapper like LBJ.
Scratch that because from what I’ve heard, LBJ would actually govern between grunts, and anyhow Nixon was more Elvis’s speed.

Was it the grilled peanut butter and banana sandwiches that helped push him over the edge?
Or maybe it was the 10,000 doses of uppers, downers, and assorted narcotics that Dr. Nick prescribed that really did Elvis in.
Of course, all of the public acclaim could not have helped when you are just a good old Southern boy who was probably more at home driving a truck and doing what his mother told him to do than playing the part of the King of Rock and Roll.

I can understand the bathroom becoming a sort of sanctuary, especially when he had a phone on either side of the commode. I bet there was even a TV in case he felt like some target practice as he sat there and waited for something to come down the pipe.
Celebrities are no different than everyday people except that after all of those years of being handed everything on a twenty-four karat gold platter, you become spoiled and entitled, and you even reek a little of your own misdeeds.
Paranoia can and will destroy you, especially when you squander the otherworldly talents you possess because life just became too large a burden for you to bear.

Charles Cicirella

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