The Presley Story

I had to attend a clinic in Lucerne recently for one of my periodic face-changes – an unfortunate but necessary result of my life as an international assassin. As I strolled in the grounds with my surgeon and old friend, Adrian d’Arcy-Einbahnstrasse, I noticed an odd figure flitting among the trees.

I say, d’Arcy-Einbahnstrasse, I ejaculated, do you see that curious old chap, yes, over there, that elderly chap with the long hair, playing air-guitar? He seems strangely familiar.

Why, that’s Presley, he chuckled. Of course he’s familiar.

Presley? But surely he’s dead from eating too many hamburgers on the toilet?

My dear fellow, smiled d’Arcy-Einbahnstrasse kindly, I don’t mean The King. I refer of course to Reg Presley, of the Troggs.

I must confess, I was astonished. Presley? I gasped. Presley of The Troggs? As in

Wild Thing, You make my heart sing, You make everything … groovy , Wild thing Wild thing, I think I love you But I wanna know for sure , Come on and hold me tight I love you You make my heart sing You make everything … groovy

d’Arcy-Einbahnstrasse nodded. Quite.

Removing the large bong he had been smoking, he gazed wistfully at the old air-guitar-playing man. He came two years ago for a simple penis transplant, and he’s been here ever since.

I was astounded. A penis transplant? The devil you say!

Oh, yes, my dear fellow. You’d be astonished at the operations people have these days. The thing is, poor old Presley’s operation didn’t quite lead to the results he’d expected, so to speak. He took a deep pull on the bong and gazed down at his feet, rocking slowly back and forth.

Gradually, comprehension began to dawn on me. You mean . . . ?

d’Arcy-Einbahnstrasse smiled. Indeed. These things take time, and Nature must take its course. It’s all up to Presley now. I’m afraid you can’t teach an old Trogg’s new dick.

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