Well, That Was Fun!

Today was the Elvis Movie Marathon and Sammich Festival.

In attendance (I'll be using Twitter IDs because it's easiest and you really should be following all of these people on Twitter. It's 2009 people. Blogs are so 2007!) were @MySecretSelf and her cub, @banky and his better half @thundabolt, @MySpyderWeb and her hubby Kanga who does not twitter, @average_jane, @m_toast, @princessofworld, @wellhellchell and later, after everyone else had left (my fault...mix-up in posted times), @kcsponge and her young adorable spawn.

I don't think I missed anyone, but if I did I'm sure I'll hear about it and deservedly so.

@TheDLC indicated that he would be in attendance. But was he? No. Not so much, really. Fine. Whatevies.

Each instance of the obscenely decadent peanut butter & banana & BACON sandwich, pan grilled in REAL BUTTER was a custom creation.

Some opted for the Steakhouse Twist bread (because it was closest to the white bread that Elvis would probably have preferred).

Others went with the potato bread. I don't think anyone went with the buttermilk bread, but I could be wrong.

Most went with the smooth peanut butter (which I put on both slices), but one attendee (I'm looking at you, @thundabolt!) was edgy enough to add to the inherent bacon crunch by opting for the extra crunchy peanut butter.

Some went balls to the wall, others chose to leave off the bacon and opt for the minimalist version of The King's favorite sandwich.

As I was frying up my 4th or 5th sandwich, @princessofworld declared she could physically feel her arteries hardening and clogging just by breathing the air in the room. I honestly don't think this was her imagination.

Everyone seemed to be quite pleased with their sandwiches. There was no projectile vomiting. No one immediately went into cardiac arrest and keeled over dead, so that was good. I got that working for me.

The general reaction was that The Elvis was really fucking good! It's kind of like a greasy, risky, uber-high-calorie version of a 'smore.

In fact, a 'smore is to an Elvis, what your first real date is to a Roman orgy.

I'm a little afraid that my friends will work this culinary catastrophe into their regular diets and they'll all be dead in 6 months.

It happened 32 years ago...it could happen again.

Which, after preparing them all day, makes me a little scared to finally fix one of my own. But fuck! I gotta eat SOMETHING for supper. Shit! This can't be good.