This man died on the toilet. He died this way because the dozens of drugs he ate like candy made him dreadfully constipated. This, combined with the element that the man was monstrously obese, put a strain on his heart as he tried to pass his granite stool—his ticker figuratively exploded as he overextended his worn system to take a dump. Or, in other words, it means that the shit really got to him and knocked him on his ass. I only bring this up to segue into the fact that one of the EMT's to treat the King's corpse was named Ulysses, which my girlfriend and I are going to name our first-born son. This EMT later became a member of the U.S. House of Representatives from Tennessee, who, flash-forward a few years, was convicted of taking a bribe. While this is not the genesis for the baby's moniker, I will now be adopting it for future reference. So, in a roundabout way, Elvis kicking it on the commode is why my son is named Ulysses.