coltish gallimaufry of varicolored clips, blips, and plonks is nothing if not what its effect is on you?
- it is all
- attributable to the
- excessive quantity of narcotics
- and Ann Margret ass
a plinth plonked on its navel […]
a plinth plonked on its navel […]
from cram meat“Only Elvis (battery-acid) Makes Me (Maine) Laugh” a 'killfile' Video by @mrjyn! Subscribe for $1 a week. Ends today. https://t.co/lAsSjwQIMy pic.twitter.com/M4x97OFSNA
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Only Elvis (battery-acid) Makes Me (Maine) Laugh
a 'killfile' Video by @mrjyn! Ends today
It was inside the first 2000s tech-unwieldy, tedious, repetitive and cumbersome -- add double his editor setup (I'm only guessing), lightyears from the days a fellow named Brandon Shred, a jazz player and YouTuber with a full time fascination for flick do-overs and attending bother by him.
I became attentive to a crawling presence of 1st one, then a number further, then quite a hoarded wealth ... I had not celebrated already existed of comparable clips from hateful Elvis movies, but created uproarious overdubbed, uncanny sounds associated, however Elvis, familiar with do-nothing, fancy, things, an over-anticked
preoccupation --
with appreciation his Guys' laughs were.
So, dialogue is bawdy, common, but highly raised to the lowest pig trough, as a Welsh or Cornish group would be, no University, but plenty of disdain for those of one, and good reason at that age even, why they wouldn't as caught him whistling by; appropriate, shot for shot, well, really, it's real director, Hal; shot through with filmic chops of sync-tedious redaction, the various comes entailed in Brandon's craps more likely represent a croupier's smile at the Colonel's action.
His (Brandon Shreds), 'Elvis,' if you will, is on the $64,000 question thing.
It'd fool Memphis, Mafia, and Nick.
Girlfriends/Wives, far more inclined to supine, had the E just stepped away from the doctor, anodyne, placed down the hydromorphone hydrochloride, and slowly do what we say, not do; letting little King taste what so narcotically he had sampled of its own mas superior brain-bath.
(I suspect, Malcolm Gladwell would naively multitask over an hour, speculative why, and never really looking for, how, his queries created fascinating reading to the opposite fruity celebrity litterateur admirers whose devoted consumption of atrociously dated pubs just like the New Yorker, careers like Gladwell's rely).
Tom Parker had a number written on his lavatory mirror which he required to induce.
Not for dollars, or records sold , like MJ, but his was for a management team, which he, of course, was embodying beat his bigger than life singularity of personhood who no one will deny; only for the fuck-you of all his unaccountable past misdeeds from which a man who escapes Deutschland, lamms it to the States and Nashville, then sponsors and the world's before long to be most renowned human for a matter of 3 decades, never budging nor fretful, never kvetching nor repining the hundred times he'd be asked so fastidiously who he was, that his prevarication became simply another sideshow of the many, in the unending campaign among several to grant the people what they wanted in any respect prices to them, and not feel in any means strained for exacting and obtaining what is still record-setting within the financial annals of the men who wear the flannel but flare it loud with cowboy hats, bravado, unapproachable El Dorado's far-from intimidation or guilt, his tendentious posturing few hagiographers mired was there to shine a light, however only once both Elvis, the Colonel, and Ol' Shep passed on: all books, all closed, book-cooking stopped.
However oddly, I finally perceive, Elvis's terribly safe place, guarded from responsibility for any price, the man whose only steerage, it turns out, relieved every worry, woe, and nisus others profess to hate adhering, loudly, as if in a very war to try and not have to do it, crowing what they suppose the issue, which the Colonel, therefore the King, each didn't apprehend that which they were doing, was, and we tend to return to recollect or trust that as partnership-based, one's trust and one's avaricious lust, one's uncaring blunderbuss, relinquishment of it all, that never let him or anyone recognize, untune, and bragging rights, which were: he did, in fact, pay his manager, Colonel Tom Parker, the foremost compensation all-told of his Brobdingnagian Enterprise, up to something north of half: 50% OF WHAT ELVIS EARNED. AND WOULD EARN, till THE DAY one or the opposite DIED!
A non-commissioned, faux military man, Parker's mandated $1 million dollar paydays, that once 05 was ablated, left a flighty dose of a pleasing 196? stack of $500,000: Kingwise!
You'll currently multiply by 100 percent for inflation, then multiply by ten for the quantity of consecutive bombs, amazingly, of which he doesn't show excessive quantity of disdain.
WHO DIES at 44-years-old?
The King of Rock n Roll, that is fucking WHO!
-- spoken in beastly honorarium shyster, Teutonic con grift, representing as a non-com, lamming rube-hustler (he quit Eddie Arnold as manager once he smelled the porky goodness of the most recent Wiener schnitzel down the road, enough to whet chops, cream hops, and enlist additional dusky waps to unsubtly work his harmless charm), never needing twist arms, but only to pop-in lollipops, gratis to der kinder while assembling lettuce and radishes for his man, "Kraftmensch" later, Sturm und Drang, that is that the degree to which ought to appeal to outside authority save self, nor be tempered by rationalism—not by pursuit of noble suggests that nor by true motives, but by revenge and greed (by proxy -- the colonel, and whoever fucked Priscilla), an anti-aristocratic slant seeking to elevate all things humble, natural, or real; painful, tormenting, or horrifying, were groundwork for window openness to suggestion, to drippy performance and melodramatic late transformation through the flexibility Elvis would perpetually possess to entertain his heart's desire -- in this case, a commonplace, however unexpected mature appreciation, where many would have left their love wherever it last was for the highly regarded and semi-operatic but Pop genius of turning Opera into Pop hits and striking Fifties children and oldsters alike right between the fourth octave and the pocketbook, one thing Zen clearly detected, remembered, and would later subsume his latest and period of play with a Liberace-like Sartorial Stage Presentation in both material, eschewing and derisively making order of checking off hound dog for a bevy of light opera, albeit, intensely tumid, and virtually too sincere for real appraisal to flee uncolored by the spectacle ...
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However it's all due to the excessive amount of narcotics and Ann Margret ass that occupied his off-time on set, and his mansion in LA -- wherever he and his Guys and monkey named Scatter, were ever uninterrupted in a very live childhood that they, incidentally, principally, had shared up till the very extracurricular sturm und drang howling through Graceland that a chronic childhood would have the grace to not [*fr1] sink-in till well when once it woodenly landed arduous, astray, and in brambles out of Graceland bounds, close to the Italian building referred to as Coletta's, Home of Memphis's noted BBQ dish, proximate to the Malt Shop, a search which found them sinking, dishabille, drugsick, mixed with novel Pavlovian response for Proustian madeleines, dog-food, and therefore, remembrance of things fast, past, and alas, never to recall Ann Margret's ass.
