For some reason I could look at this all day.
I once won a bunch of crap at Shoe Carnival because I knew Elvis’s middle name.
When we first started dating (or hanging out, whatever) my husband, we rode our bikes to Montrose Harbor. In his messenger bag he had a mini boombox hooked up to a discman that was playing an Elvis CD purchased at the Starbucks I worked at. True Love.
Last week George put his too tight Buzz Lightyear costume on backwards and let his chest show. He informed me that he’s Fat Elvis.
Earlier this year I was on a sort of diet until I had Fat Elvis pie from Hoosier Mama.
My mom went to a Elvis concert once. She says it was awful. I usually leave that part out.
My mother-in-law cried the day Elvis died.
