Avast, ye salt-crusted scoundrels and rum-soaked scribblers! Gather ‘round the mizzenmast, for a message in a bottle has drifted into the harbor of Port Hollywood, and its contents are more volatile than a keg of damp gunpowder. The Lady Priscilla, Dowager Queen of the Gilded Estate of Memphis, has announced she is scribbling a new memoir—a logbook of the 'difficult times' she endured while tethered to the most legendary privateer to ever sail the charts of Rock and Roll: The Pelvis himself, Elvis Presley.

For years, we lubbers have toasted to the King’s health as if he were Neptune incarnate, but Priscilla’s upcoming parchment threatens to reveal that life aboard the HMS Graceland wasn't all velvet waistcoats and golden fried sandwiches. Nay, she speaks of tempests in the tea-room and doldrums that would drive a man to drink his own bathwater. Rumor has it the Lady will detail the isolation of being locked in a gilded cage while her Captain was out pillaging the charts and shaking his barnacle-encrusted hips for every wench from Tortuga to Tennessee. It seems the 'King's Ransom' of fame came with a heavy tax of loneliness and scurvy of the soul.

This news has sent a shiver through the fleet, for if the legacy of the King is tarnished, the very economy of our high seas may collapse! 'If the Lady Priscilla admits the King was a mere mortal with a penchant for mood swings and erratic navigation, the price of Elvis-stamped doubloons will drop faster than an anchor in a trench,' warned the Duke of Hollywood Docks, Lord Sterling-Silver, while clutching his pearls and a bottle of vintage Bordeaux. The quartermasters of the memorabilia trade are already sweating through their lace collars, fearing a mutiny among the fans who have worshipped at the altar of the Sun-King for decades.

My own crew is divided on the matter. 'The Pelvis was a kraken of a man, a force of nature that no one woman could steer!' shouted Boatswain 'Blind' Barnaby during our morning grog ration. 'If she wants to tell of the storms, let her! Every sea has its monsters, even the Sea of Love.' However, the ship's cook, a man who claims to have once flipped a burger for the King in '56, disagrees. 'Tis treason! To speak ill of the Captain when he’s already been buried in the deep for forty-odd years? She’s just lookin’ to refill her coffers with new loot, she is!'

Make no mistake, me hearties: this memoir is no mere romantic shanty. It is a tactical strike against the mythos of the crown. As the Lady Priscilla prepares to unfurl her sails and navigate the rocky shoals of public opinion, we must ask ourselves what remains when the gold paint is scraped off the idol. Will we find a man, or just a pile of damp jumpsuits? Either way, keep your cutlasses sharpened and your ears to the wind. If this book causes a swell in the social tides, we might all find ourselves shipwrecked on the Island of Harsh Reality. Captain Iron Ink says: Read it if ye dare, but keep one hand on your coin purse and the other on the rigging!