I Too Need Elvis Medicine

Keep me in your prayers, good people, because Rok Finger is sick as a dog. Not a healthy dog, either, but a dog with mange, or some kind of dog disease. I don't have mange, at least to my knowledge, though my back hair has been falling out lately. No, I have the more human kind of sickness nobody has a name for, some bizarre kind of illness leaving me covered with spots as if some sort of chicken had made pock marks all over me. Also, they itch like a bastard. And not a comfortable bastard either. All I know is I need Elvis medicine.

Who knew Elvis even had medicine? As foolish as it might sound, I didn't know until recently. Sure, I had heard rumors and gossip the king had been involved in drugs, but I always believed they were talking about the kind of illegal prescription drugs. Naturally, this turns me around 180 degrees on Elvis. I now think the man is a genius, and if he is a genius, it stands to reason he made pretty good medicine in his spare time. Quite a noble gesture on his part, too, if you ask me. If I were making millions and doing comeback concerts in Hawaii and designing my own sequined jumpsuits, you can bet your boots I wouldn't be spending my available off-hours making better medications for the indigent.

Since I was ill this week, I didn't bother going to the commune. I called and told them I was feeling under the weather, and at my height, it's not hard to do. A little good-natured self-ribbing. But the commune was very understanding, and told me not to come back until I was feeling better, or not at all. A little good-natured ribbing of me on their part, which I didn't appreciate. But I had the week to myself, to get over this sickness. So I began watching that Lord of the Rings movie I like so much, where the short men outwit and humiliate the tall people. Quite a good film, they should consider doing a sequel to it at some point.

And good people, here was my solution all the time! When the valiant little fellow gets stabbed by the grim reapers, he's all in a state, far worse than myself. The gargantuan hippie attends to his wound, but cannot fix it, so he calls on the daughter of Aerosmith, the girl who rides the horse, and he tells her he needs Elvis medicine.

Of course, I was intrigued. The rock star offspring scooped up the proud little man and carried him off to Gracieland immediately. Suddenly the movie made sense. They kept referring to the giant hippie as the heir of the king, but I thought they meant a king of England or something, not the King. It certainly puts the movie in a new light.

Now, I'm no idiot. I know Elvis is dead. But that doesn't mean his heirs or someone else isn't living the high life at Gracieland right now, sitting on piles and piles of Elvis medicine they're hoarding all to themselves. Or maybe they hand it out to tourists, as a good-will gesture and Elvis' last request. I could picture the man, clear as day: "Now, uh, lookee here, baby… I gotta go on, it's my time now, but you gotta look after these people. Medicine for everybody. Do me proud."

What a man.

Well, Elvis, you can certainly do me some good. In fact, after I finish this column, I'm going to Gracieland, Gracieland, Rumney, New Hampshire. Or perhaps this time it's the one in Memphis. If so, then Memphis, New Hampshire, here I come! I've got the urge for a little Kingly medication.

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