by Chrone Osphere
Temporal Correspondent
August 16, 1977

by Philip Jones
Chicago Tribune
August 17, 1977
Ding dong, the "King" is dead.
My editors expect me to write about the great loss to the world Elvis Presley's death will be.
Well, respectfully- no.
Mr. Presley may have been a talented performer, but he was a more talented thief.
Just as the Confederate plantation owners built their fortunes on the backs of African slaves, Presley built his success on the back of Afro-American music.
His "race records," as we used to call them, canibalize a proud canon of blues, gospel, even Negro spirituals.
First the slaves had to work in the fields for free.
Then Presley took their songs for free.
Why does "copywrite protection" only work for the white man?
And don't tell me how much of his stuff was original-
none of it was.
As T.S. Eliot said, "bad poets borrow, great poets steal."
Well, even when Presley wasn't stealing our music, he was usally "borrowing," and did so poorly.
So you'll have to forgive me if I don't shed a tear for one less Memphis-fried jive turkey.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Chrone's thought-stream and POV image provided by his cerebral stenography chip, no official column was ever filed)
HEY, E- I THINK WE'RE OUT OF CHAMPAI-
what the?
BUDDY?
oh, no no no no no nonononono
NO!
NOT AGAIN!
how could this happen to me again?
I came three years early this time.
Not a week- three years!
AND YOU DIE ON THE FUCKING TOILET?
WHAT THE FUCK, E?!
I can't believe this keeps happening.
It's like I'm bad luck or something.
Shit- he died fat.
Not only did I somehow kill him, but I did it before he got skinny again.
I'm such an asshole.
I'M SORRY, E.
I've got to get out of here.
I'm just gonna grab some of these pills.
He's not gonna need 'em.
God dammit.

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