I'm at my parents' house, typing this post on my dad's swanky laptop. I couldn't wait until I got home because I don't want to forget a single second of the conversation I just had with my mother.
We were going through a stack of church cookbooks, looking for an elusive Texas Sheet Cake recipe. She was reading the names of various recipes out of the book she was looking through as I flipped through another.
"Pineapple Surprise Cake," she read. "Chocolate Volcano Cake. Elvis's Favorite Cake."
"Elvis's Favorite Cake'?" I asked, smiling. "That doesn't seem like a proper recipe for a church cookbook."
"Why not?" she asked.
"Well, because there are probably amphetamines stirred into the batter," I said, tickled.
She looked at me in surprise. "Why would Elvis like that?"
"Or maybe you frost the cake and then decorate the top with Valium instead of sprinkles," I continued, warming to my theme.
"Huh?" she asked, blonde-ly.
"Well, because of the way the poor guy died," I said, feeling that this statement would clear up all confusion.
"How did he die?" she asked, shocked, her blue eyes wide with concern.
"Of a drug overdose, maybe?" I said patiently.
She shot an agonized look around the kitchen to make sure no grandsons or granddaughters were listening. "Did Elvis take drugs?" she whispered.
"Yes, Mom," I said, "And you may want to brace yourself for this news, but Rock Hudson? He was gay."
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