PB&J AND SNICKERS SANDWICH FOLLOWED BY A SIGN FROM GOD: AN AWESOME 12 HOURS

Last night I made the best fucking sandwich.

Okay, so lately I've been loading up my sandwiches with lots of produce -- tomato, onion, spinach, avocado, sprouts, you want it I got it. But last night, I said fuck it with the nancy-foods, lets get back to the basics.

I took the peanut butter out of the cabinet (unfortunately creamy since it was my roommate's. Creamy PB is like drinking O'Douls or St. Pauly Girl N.A.: why even bother? what's the fucking point?). I snagged the grape jelly (in a glass jar, none of this squeezeable tube bullshit) out of the fridge. I grabbed two of those circular "Arnold Whole Grain Carb-lite Bread" things from the counter. Then I took a knife out of the drawer and thought to myself, "What can I do to take this fucker to the next level?"

As fate would have it, me and my roommate (we'll call him Chicken Cutlet Chris, or Colonel Cutlet for short) had just bought a sweet sandwich-press at the thrift store FOR TWO FUCKING DOLLARS. It was clean and it worked. We couldn't afford to not get it.

Anyway, I buttered my bread (peanut butter on the inside, butter on the outside). Plugged in the sandwich maker (we'll call him The Punisher). Then the clincher: I took a "Fun Size" Snickers Bar (why are they called Fun Size, by the way? They are tiny as fuck. More food is always more fun. This is simple, irrefutable logic. Does this little observation sound familiar to you? Did I steal it from Seinfeld? I feel like I didn't come up with it on my own but am not sure). Then I crumbled that fucker into little pieces and sprinkled it on top of the peanut butter. Then I slammed the jelly side on top and fed that whole sandwich into The Punisher.

I patiently waited for The Punisher to do its work. Kind of like a serial killer who enjoys the sounds of anguish escaping from his victims, I waited to hear the splatter and crackle of the peanut butter oozing out of the sandwich and onto the hot iron before removing the sandwich. That's the beauty of The Punisher -- it has its own infallible and delicious-sounding alarm clock.

I filled up a tall glass of milk while I waited for the sandwich to cool. Five seconds later, I decided I had waited long enough shoved a massive chunk into my mouth.

Holy fuck. If Reese's is the leader of the chocolate-PB world, then they're not even in the same universe as me, because this was easily, hands-down the best chocolate-PB combo I've ever had.

The Snickers had completely melted between the peanut butter on bottom and jelly on top (does anyone eat their sandwich with the jelly on bottom? and does anyone use more jelly than PB? seems weird to me. I go 70-30 with PB to Jelly and always have the lesser-used ingredient on top).

The result was a gooey, thick and sweet combination of chocolately, PB goodness that made me quickly forget all of the stupid vegetables I had been eating lately.

This small sandwich, which I washed down with a glass of chocolate milk, was really enough to satisfy me for the night. But I went to someone's birthday party, and there was dinner there, so I of course had to eat some awesomely spicy Chicken Masala over rice and sprouts. I was sweating like a beast and chugging Euphoria beer (so fucking good) to compensate. Then they brought out this thick beast of a chocolate cake. I didn't need any but I was sitting right where they put in out on the table. How could I say no?

Anyway, this brings us to part two of the story. After coming home in a Euphoric state, I chomped on these leftover sugar cookies that had been sitting out on the counter all day. They were stale as fuck, but at that point, their freshness was the least of my worries. Then, I tore into some dried Phillippine Mango slices before watching an episode of Curb and falling asleep.

I woke early, at like 9:13, to a text from my friend, who we'll call Sergeant Scraps, since he always leaves an awesome pile of scraps for me to sort through after he's done eating his pizza, cheese steak, burrito, whatever.

Despite, or because of, my euphoric state from the night before, I felt awful when I woke up. I immediately stumbled my way into the bathroom.

Before I continue, I need to make a disclaimer. I hate -- and I mean hate in its strongest, truest, most potent form -- poop jokes. I hate references to feces, or defecation, or any sort of bowel movement at all. I especially hate the word poop. HATE it. It doesn't need to be said and it isn't funny. It's just the byproduct of being human. It's no funnier than saliva or mucus. So, even though I hate "poop," I need to tell you this story: don't look at it as a story about excrement, but as evidence of the existence of God.

Okay so I'm on the bowl and I'm dropping awful, ungodly beershits. It's my body's way of thanking me for the way I treated it last night. Anyway, when I finish and flush, I'm horrified to hear the toilet sputter and the water start to rise. Mind you, when I created this godless mess in the bowl, I did it under the assumption it would stay in the bowl and then wander down the drain. I never expected it to rise up and join the world, but that's exactly what it wanted to do.

Being the Miller High Life Man that I am, I thought I could use my male prowess to solve the problem on my own. I lifted up the lid and started probing the toilet's inner machinery. I tinkered around with a few gadgets and levers and such, but every move I made only caused the cess pool in the bowl to rise.

I changed plans and started scouring the house for a plunger. In my head, I wondered why this was happening to me, here and now. My roommate's brother and his brother's wife were staying with us. I expected one of them to burst into the bathroom at that exact moment, discovering my act of disgustingness and forever hating me for it. Then, I thought of Dumb and Dumber. I shook my head and sighed, observing that the clogged toilet/diarrhea shtick wasn't funny when it happened to Jeff Daniels, and it was even less funny now.

I couldn't find a plunger anywhere. I knelt to the floor. I was defeated. I had surrendered. "This is my punishment for going for seconds on the cake," I thought to myself.

Then, as I wallowed in self-pity, a miracle happened.

The sound started as a wispy and shrill whistle. My ears immediately perked up. What could that be?

Then came a few gurgles and burps. My eyes opened-wide in disbelief. What's going on in there?

Then came a sudden bubble sound, louder than the first two sounds. My back arched straighter than a Puritan's on Thanksgiving. What supernatural force has entered this house?

Then, with a sound I can only compare to that of the Red Sea parting for Moses, a gigantic rushing of water and deafening whoosh radiated from the bathroom, shattering the fragile silence like 500 trillion tons of water breaking through Hoover Dam and destroying everything in its path. I popped up faster than a 12-year-old boner upon seeing bare breast. Then ran into the bathroom.

Twenty-two years of atheism in no way prepared for me the miracle I witnessed. The bowl, by some all-powerful act of a higher being, was suddenly empty, drained of the foul excrement which had threatened to derail my whole life just minutes before. The beast which threatened to invade my house had been sucked back into the void, had joined its earthless brethren back in the abyss.

I couldn't believe my eyes. I made no sudden movements. Kind of like how I make sure there are no flags on the field before letting myself celebrate a 74-yard Brandon Jacobs TD, I held my emotions in check, fearfully suspicious that the waste would somehow, suddenly, ejaculate back up from the bowl, emitting a jet-stream of fecal propulsion so mighty and disgusting that no force on this earth -- even an eruption from Old Faithful if the geyser somehow drew all its liquid from Tony Siragusa's septic tank -- could match it.

But after a few seconds, all the bowl did was weakly gurgle one final time, bubbling gently as if to say, "I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and fourth generations of those who hate me, but showing mercy to thousands, to those who love Me and keep My commandments," or something equally biblical.

For the second time in five minutes, I knelt and threw my arms into the air, though this time in celebration and gratefulness. I praised the spirit which had visited this miracle upon my humble Hillcrest Apartment, vowing to never anger it or doubt it again.

I won't now consider myself a Christian, and still am considering raising my kids Jewish so they became tough, but am at least convinced there is a God out there, somewhere, watching over us and delivering us from evil.

Praise be the lord.

CAPTAIN CHEDDARSTORM