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Elvis loved coming back to earth every year, especially during Oktoberfest. Something about everyone pretending to be German just tickled him pink. Velvet pink, of course. He was still the King. And all that gratuitous cleavage! Fried dough - from somewhere else. But he wasn't one to muse.
"Ahhh!!" someone screamed, "It's Elvis" she said.
"Yahhh, baby," he drawled, and slung an arm around her. Squeezably soft, like Charmin. Her eyes kind of popped when he did that. She was a real dish. "I'm just an out of work postal worker..." Before she could finish her sentence he had filled her mouth with a big chunk of Bratwurst , just like he had done in one of his movies - that one with the inflatable dog and the three plastic flounders. He never understood why they were hot. "PORCA DELLA PUTTANA TROIA ZOCCOLA!" he shouted his mouth burnt.
Unwinding the chick from his arm with such force that she spun like a top, he ran for water, for salve for his mouth. Backstage again he put down the ice and was eyeing the curvaceous stagehand when the all-too-familiar blue light washed over his vision. No! he thought, as he was transported off earth again.
