And Elvis saw them berating the poor recording artist, whose music was terrible and lyrics insipid, and Lo, the King said
unto the mob:
      `Let him who is without bad singles cast the first rhinestone.'
    And the mob turned down their eyes, each considering his own Don't Worry Be Happy or Man in the Mirror, and shuffled off.
      `Thank you,' said Elvis. `Thank you very much.'
     

      And Elvis so loved the world that he died, fat and bloated, in a bathroom.
     He very pointedly did not rise from the dead three days later, but was nonetheless seen across the world by various and sundry housewives.
      Create your own Ain't Nuthin' Butta Hound-Dogmas, but be sure to stay out of the Sacred Heartbreak Hotel,
where damned souls twinkle like stars in the night, each a Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love.
      ``Return, we beseech the, O Lord of Hostess: look down from Heaven, and behold, and visit this mall...''