The British were wondering (in their fastidious British way) why it was that rich Elvis—whose material desires were limited only by how clearly he could speak into the phone on any given day—chose to eat junk food until the night he died. He could have had the finest, healthiest, tastiest meals science and obscene foppery had yet devised—lambent pink halibut cheeks, cage-raised lamb leg never ever flexed, pterodactyl under glass—but instead he'd pad down to the kitchen to review how many sticks of butter were puddling in the skillet in which his peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches were frying up. His personal chef, Mary Jenkins Langston—"Maywee," he called her—found after five experiments that the golden ratio was two sticks of butter per every three sandwiches. Usually, he'd have her fix up about five sandwiches. His daily caloric intake was back-calculated as something more appropriate for a full-grown Asian elephant. And then he died, more oil than man—dinosaur to fossil fuel per the usual progression. The... More >>>