None of the articles I've come across have explained to my satisfaction how Mozart became the King of Poop, with my apologies to the late, great MJ (but not to the closet industry of necromantic celebration that has kicked into another gear this weekend, the first anniversary of his death). Old fart that I am, I suspect L'il Wayne and that crunk junk don't incite or excite the microbes to be doing enough of that ingesting and digesting, ya dig?
In fairness, none of the reports suggest Rubber Soul period Beatles does the trick either though the protagonist in Norwegian Wood did crawl out to sleep in the bath, which gets us closer to the heart of the matter, so to speak. And speaking of Beatles, Ringo Starr turns seventy the day before my son turns twenty-eight--but that's NOT possible because it wasn't that long ago we were all in the backseat of my Dad's '63 Chrysler Newport (white with red interior) listening to I Want to Hold Your Hand on WABC-AM. Although, come to think of it.......
So here we are, wishing in one hand and s*itting in the other to see which one fills up faster, and then which one goes away altogether quicker, left to ponder the wit and wisdom of the eternal observation, "Exactly where the money went-well, everybody knew. He was a man who loved the women and they loved him too." Rock me Amadeus.