THE GHOSTLY 52^nd GRAMMYS:

LIVE, FROM HEAVEN!

The two Immortals sit on their golden thrones, watching the 52^nd Grammy Awards. A full moon hangs between them, and the CBS satellites fly close at hand. So the reception on heaven’s live Blu-Ray is crystal.

The King of Rock -- in black suede jumpsuit and Captain Marvel thunderbolt cape --smokes a Roi-Tan blunt, blowing plumes across the stratosphere. He holds a .44 magnum.

The King of Pop -- in mascara, military brocade and single white sequin glove -- sips a Pepsi while shielding himself from the lunar rays with an ET umbrella. He holds a squirt gun.

“Beyoncé, Lady Gaga, Celine, Smokey!” he cries as the stars take the stage far far below at the Staples Center in the City of Angels. “I love you guys!”

Tonight is the night of nights: his Lifetime Achievement Award.

“Back in ’71– now that was a goddamn Lifetime,” grumbles his rival. “And I was only 36 – and above ground!” He turns to the ghost perched behind him. “Ain’t that right, Lee?”

Mr. Showmanship himself, Liberace, in his diamonds and ostrich boa, outshines even the royalty tonight. “Don’t be a party poop, E,” he teases his old Vegas co-star. “This is Michael’s night.” He lays a bejeweled hand on the haloed head. “Enjoy sweetheart!”

“I love you, Lee,” coos the King of Pop. “Forever.”

“Chopsticks, Stella by Starlight, and Jesu Bambino break my heart every goddamn time,” Elvis grouses. “And what’d you get for it, Queenie – the goddamn Golden Mike in ’81!”

“Triffles, dear boy. Triffles,” laughs the Lord’s pianist. “I cried all the way to the bank. And now my reward is rich in heaven.”

“You’re so sweet, Lee,” Michael tells him. “I’m sharing tonight with you – this is our award.”  

Elvis scowls at the other late-great Lifers on the edge of their seats in the celestial gallery: James, the King of Soul; Marvin, the Prince of Motown; and Frank, the Chairman of the Board himself. “I didn’t score this many dancers for my freakin Aloha comeback – seen by 1 billion,” he tells them. “How ‘bout you fellas?”

Sinatra gives Elvis a shrug; James and Marvin give him the finger. Michael giggles and blows them a breathy kiss.

“Where the hell’s Moe and that deaf sonofabitch?” demands Elvis, scanning the opera boxes above for Mozart and Beethoven.

“The poor dears don’t watch award shows,” Liberace reminds him.

“No frickin wonder,” he grumbles. “What’d they ever get for their trouble – the flu, the clap, and a couple unmarked graves.”

“Ssssh ! My Earth Song!” cries Michael in his Target 3D aviator shades. As his holograph explodes on heaven’s video screen in the midst of world devastation, he harmonizes with Smokey and Usher. Behind him, Marvin sings mercy mercy me.

Elvis blasts the TV with his .44 magnum. Michael puts out the fire with his squirt gun. Elvis begins to moan Heartbreak Hotel. His rival’s Earth Song apotheosis in L.A. is longest eight minutes of the King’s afterlife.

“Hey, what about yesterday?” Michael weeps to the heavens. “What about the seas? The heavens are falling down…”