``For unto you is born this day in the city of Memphis a Presley, which is Elvis the King.'' 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 I turned to see the voice that spake with me. And being turned, I saw seven golden records; and in the midst of the seven golden records one like unto the Son of Zeke, clothed with a jumpsuit down to the foot, and girthed...er...girt about the paunch with rhinestones. His hairs were black like vinyl, as black as Brilcream; and his eyes, how they twinkled, his dimples, how merry... ``Who is this King of Rock-n-Roll? The Lord of Hostess, he is the King of Rock-n-Roll. Shaboom.'' 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...''