Elvis had his birthday recently. The radio played his songs until you went bonkers. The Elvis impersonators had their biggest night. Graceland was packed. It was Elvis, Elvis and more Elvis. The question is: is he really dead?

Sure, there’s a death certificate. So what? This is a country of fake driver’s licenses, fake green cards and fake voters. A fake death certificate is child’s play. Yes, The National Inquirer ran a picture of him in his coffin. Looked like the 1967 Elvis. This plan may have been a long time in the planning, if it was a plan.

When he “died” he left Lisa Marie 4 million dollars and a broken down old mansion. Now, he’s worth 200 million. He’s richer “dead” than alive.

“But”, he said, “if I’m dead I can’t appear in public!”

“Uh, Elvis”, Red West told him, “you don’t want to anymore. You’re fat and can’t hit the high notes. Trust me, you need to be dead.”

“But, whatta ah do? I can’t jus’ live in a cave. Oh, excuse me, those tacos always give me gas.”

“Whewee! Man, you really blast some ripe ones. No, you don’t live in a cave. You buy an island. Not you but your estate.”

“Yea? Lots of girls?”

“Uh, well, yea, if you want”, Red told him. Girls with bad sinus problems, he thought.

“How long I gotta stay dead?”, Elvis asked.

“Dead is forever, man.”, Red replied.

“That seems like a long time. Maybe after a couple years I could make a comeback”.

“No, Elvis, if you’re goin’ to be dead, be dead. You come back and those witless fans will really believe you're God , what with a resurrection and all.”

“Now, ahm not gonna make a fool outta God. I’d end up in Hell for sure.”

Red didn’t say what he was thinking to that. Elvis was going to be the main attraction in Hell if he went there. Forever. Elvis would like that if he’d think it through. Thinking wasn’t his strong point.

“Okay, Red, ah’ll do it. Just make me look good dead”.

“Good as alive”, Red told him.

“No, gotta be better’n that”.