Jerry Lee Lewis, Liberace, Elton John fan Jacob Tolliver caught rockin' 'Sad Songs (Say So Much)' in full Killer impersonator mode, fully erect, affecting ofay, tasteful mirrored piano: Lib says, 'Okay'!

Crazed fan Jacob Tolliver SINGS Elton John's

'Sad Songs (Say So Much)'

in full-blown

Jerry Lee Lewis

Killer mode,

while playing 

Liberace's haunted Mirror Piano

at former Lib and let Die Mansion

Jacob Tolliver is fully erect,

ofay, but

Lib says,

'Okay'!

See what happens next when Jacob Tolliver ...

 'Sad Songs (Say So Much)'

Jacob Tolliver

Jacob caught playing Liberace's famous mirrored piano…

 

Jacob Tolliver recorded Elton John's Sad Songs (Say So Much), in stark desuetude, acoustically muffled, in the key of Loney, as like as I'll ever, know unto me, that which Liberace's bathroom, its sonic resonance well known, here sounds like a peerless, pitiable, once-grand living room, our most derelict American practicing homo on the DL; that which great Americans have convinced financially Provident owing to unknown homophobic neurosis, which sees America ignoring its talented queens in favor of perniciously assailing those Streetcar Stanley's and the like, whose testosterone runs slightly South of this year's Russian track stars, receive the most tolerant exploitation the limit America can take -- but hate -- such were the times, those were.

And,

Time in a bottle,

in Tolliver's case, 

Liberace,

effigaic,

fine lines confining to let [him] crossover, tops bottoms -- bottoms tops, find  both enlightenment unenlightened, plodding blind sexual preference's preference for more shell-changing, houseproud, winkling, uninspired, but sexually unbound, all, save irony, which this interpretation personally fulfills, foregoes, lasts our list cause célèbre, and checks off both, 'Wouldn't it be weird to PLAY (insert song) ... and sadly but more likely,  'this is my favorite song/artist -- why don't I rock it up   just for me as my little treat,' furtively, provocatively, in absentia,  flaunting, secreting in plain site, and never seen backstage, shines the lightboys light on jumpin', joltin',  jilting wimmen, piano keys and nothing personal, witless omission, his, or prolonged passing be.

Tell effigaic lackadaisical lillies
le cafe file a gilt cicada ilk sillies
fillie aisles a acidic lick clef feel
icicles dial as illicit greek alphalpha

Ill-conceived, thinly veiled, 'studying hard, hopin' to pass,' straight stunt, I have now witnessed, like you, if not sanctioned BY, then forever associated WITH, EVEN shortsightedly praised by living kin, kid-sister (Linda Gail Lewis has trouble saying no),  the Killer just fifteen years earlier would,

not only

have been protected from the presumptively successful midnight Twilight Zone pitch and subsequent concupiscent fairy-dusting and fruition, but certainly, upon being made known in the Killer's ear, would have, I'm sure,  the same force majeure effect I witnessed in a fit of pique and propinquity, something akin to  twistin' which,  Chubby Checker excused, had there been adequate time to record its beautiful, dramatic, irony play,  one live legend receiving payback for impossible, unknowable reality of what could have been, Linda Gail Lewis marries real Elvis, instead, Linda's sixth husband, Elvis Impersonator, Bobby Memphis, later kicked curbside by she, the most formidable serial monogamist in history, when found by her his final undoing, canoodling with that most evil felatrix soon to be in Heaven's Band over at the VIP Lounge, but more importantly, only about-to-be-murdered bitch on

Planet Here's Your OLD Hernando's Hideaway dancing partner, illicit inveigler in the felonious art of Federal crimes perpetrated on lonely heart's victims via the United States Postal Service,

with whom I danced, is likening fucking to massage -- even now, I slobber at the woman's costumed transactional, libidinous relationship-necessitative man, woman;  lick lips at this shitshow Lotto; no points, percentages, residual plays in perpetuity would I require tomorrow for this producer gig from Heaven to me, to New Rose Record's Phillip Mathe, to Doug Easley, to Linda Gail Lewis, on her landline, yelling at Bobby the kids, then agreeing to participate in dueting for our first recorded number for Linda Gail Lewis's International Affair LP, 1991 New Rose Disque, Paris, FR, and recorded at Easley Recording for his final session at the backyard studio before moving, HER comeback record, I found myself under the AEGIS of Memphis, whose agency I adumbrated, proving this to be the most abundant, never lacking manifestation of all things previously desired become desirably demoted next to these embarrassment of non-material riches.

This drag show in search of a boa shooed hetero decorum in lieu of not-dead-yet loss-of-bereavement,  ungraciously rushed out before Jerry Lee no longer surmises the tree-same Earth, soon to be less than for its inevitability, and fewer even than deep-purpled lily's lulten tendrils and bougainvillea's headline warning its audience as from an infernal desertscape ghost town, where growing prodigiously among the Joshua Tree cacti, were there among fallen purple flowerings, only nigrosine, bitumin roses, blooming this fumid night while the Killer beckoned, 'Hear him,' impotently pernicious, diaphanous tears drop on Eve's Adamite bit apple -- and even Eden wept in solidarity and feminine contemporaneity ...

Jerry Lee Lewis was not a big Lee fan.

But I can see the attraction for JT.

This cringeworthy, fantastical Fauntleroy,

posturing

more appropriate in the French Quarter's Halloween debauchery, or indecorously putting brunch at Commander's Palace in high dudgeon, underplayed, impossibly able to best the converse option of overplaying, the overly earnest (Al Gore, not John Malcovich) Elton John's 90s comeback Candle reprise, (Sad Songs and how they say too much), had burned out long ago, but [its] legend never will, although it temporally revived a Royal tribute near-debacle to Her Royal Highness, Princess Diana, unless this be the hearse for Louis XIV, sartorially enrobed with Baroque matching wardrobe, a singularly mirrored vestment only diminutive complex icons such as co-Rock 'n' Roll architect, Little Richard (also, ofay, and passing), could wear it ca. 1968, and dared to -- letting our already laughing tongues 'all hang out,' whose wheelbarrow-full of testicle-intestine offal frontloading his delusional demonstration, here singing Elton as Jerry Lee, is not a diagnosis of psychopathy per se, no more worrying perhaps than, say, Louisiana gubernatorial golden brother, 'Long'-shot, replacement cum nepotist, ad hominum, Mad Earl 'K' Long, who famously after a mandatory commitment to a Louisiana mental institution granted his own clemency.

BUT,

finally, lastly, and maybe BECAUSE only his misfortune resonates lugubrious dissonance,  rejected ad bizarrum, he whose collection of every mental deficit from every Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM 1–5), pales by comparison.

Mr. Tolliver and he both posses genius of invention, not terribly unique, or earth shattering: computer antivirus prevention, and balls to perform a late Elton John cover in a Jerry Lee Lewis persona -- Jerry Lee Lewis still being relatively alive --

tell me, straight,

you, gay:

what the fuck is wrong with you -- full stop.

The man to whom you may still pay money and scatological tribute every time someone shits in your mouth or installs malware on your computer, has a mouth so "Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile," the unmentionables will remain that way, unexpurgated here for another day, for myself, as you, the coprophagic computer magnate's, unholy kickstart on the lam, murder spree unticked, until his Belizian neighbor complained about his six thousand armed guards, pit bulls,  after having his limit, inspiring poisoning. All. And they died.

But he couldn't let his forever sleeping dogs lie, so he kicked his crazy into overdrive, possibly with a mouthful of shit, like an infantilized Popeye on a too much, too soon spinach-only diet, a Bluto bender with plenty of olive oil in intestine, away, murder, we GOOOOOO!

It's hard for good vibrations to go through the epicene vainglory that was Lee; and then when it does, it has to figure out where the fuck it is, then bounce off more mirrors, marble slabs and chandeliers, finally doing what it canonically should, smitten, as if in a  Storyville whorehouse after a jeroboam of Veuve Clicquot, tied in, into a $15 silk bodice tightly liking it, looking at it during the ornate rogering its taken to extricate herself out of the frock and back house to this bordello, its gilded guest house's address publicized in New Orleans famous Blue Book, has now frightened her, the hysterical trills and blissing glissando, Jelly Roll takes a smoke break or heterosexuality.

Jacob is raking ivories like a bad uncle rakes leaves while babysitting his brother's kids at Thanksgiving, coaxing his nephew with avuncular  grooming, his grin breaks ghoulishly, creeping up face, the bizarre affinity he shares with Liberace, Michael Jackson, and others should substitute for door-to-door predator alerts which could force other SPs to don large lanyards around necks, warning rubes against the ineluctable guilelessness which prohibits them even the suggestion of what is about to befall their young innocent charges ...

A whole lotta rococo goin' on gilded splinters, Louis XIV frapping bought in Vegas (where it really should stay in Vegas), extravagantly positioned around faux Feng shui, ofay decorator, Martin Short could not have dreamed swishing around the room with sound, fury, but no significance, pearls already thrown at porcine swine, slop to the trough, cash unto this mimetic, slobbering, wunderkind, spectrum-talented parroting something heard once, now by rote repeated soullessly, not having the slightest idea what it means, and with all the subtlety and passion he will soon show for his box (literally) of Lorna Doone's, tragically predictive for him, his lot in life is imitation, not  sincerity forms its flattery, but  a parlor trick, sometime occupation which capably accomplished before a selectively picked audience, understanding his special situation, whose summary of the difference between generic and transcendent boils down to, whose

is the ticket, less dear--not  bowdlerized lacking originality, the copyist, no fault of his own, coached to perform.

Temerity and lack of self-awareness, quantification not the least flamboyant, the horror this preening poetaster portrays -- Salieri to Mozart, Jonson to Shakespeare, Orion to Elvis -- even the Circus tent is filled with ghosts, when, and I'm afraid it will stand irremediably mute, the legend gone, this too shall pass, real accomplishment to blithe minority, clueless, casual adepts for whom this sideshow,  not already retching, crinolines, petite-fores and nigousine Moores, butlered figures in-waiting, reflecting silver trays show their wide toothy grin rapaciously over their minuscule cucumber sandwich offering, the only palatable cantenation incapability, not instinct, was it left pristine; comparable to two chihuahuas, both  violating tag-team and/or doggy-style code of conduct, proscribed from their stint in Algiers in service to the French Republic of France, and Her French Foreign Legion, including a moratorium on all sexual activities, such as, humping by a Zouave unbecoming of an officer, or humping with excessive celebration, inordinate gesticulation, and five-minute or more, snarling, barking in a foreign language, statuette wearing MC Hammer pantaloons, yipping and yapping, almost rapping, but  distracting Lee (Liberace) from the scene--

ALMOST! 

He howls and squeals so much such will be that moment he remembers, but now, it is the moment which he keeps to himself, for Lee, and to Lee's delight, and Lee's only. 

Tick A. Lock

Sad Songs (Say So Much) - Jacob Tolliver

Jacob caught playing Liberace's famous Mirrored piano…

Coprophagia is extremely uncommon in humans. It is generally thought to be the result of the paraphilia known as coprophilia, although it is only diagnosed in extreme cases where it disturbs one's functioning. Similar risk can apply to related sexual practices, such as anilingus or inserting an object into the mouth that has recently been in the anus (see ass to mouth). Coprophagia is also sometimes depicted in pornography, usually under the terms "scat" or "splashly".

Jacob caught playing on Liberace's famous Mirrored piano rocking red-handed. See what happens next when Jacob Tolliver got carried away at rehearsal!! Jacob ...