[ WP ] You really want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich . You only have crunch peanut butter . You hate crunchy peanut butter . Tell me a narrative drama of a man put in this heart wrenching situation , and his journey for the lunch he truly desires . I expect to be moved to tears .

It started out with a mostly-finished jar of raspberry jam, and a distinct lack of any jars of usable peanut butter. 
 
 Well, that was n't entirely true. George had peanut butter, just not any peanut butter suitable for eating. 
 
 There happened to be a single, neglected jar of crunchy peanut butter shoved in the back of the cabinet in order to hide its evil presence. But today, it had made itself known. George had gone to make himself a sandwich for lunch -- he always ate creamy peanut butter and raspberry jam on whole wheat bread, no substitutions -- only to discover that a jar of that vile substance had somehow managed to infiltrate his cabinet. He must've bought it by mistake at some point, but that was n't an excuse. Crunchy peanut butter was an abomination, a freak of nature that had no valid reason for even existing, except possibly for those strange freaks who actually *enjoyed* it. They were probably the same people who feasted on the corpses of dead children. They could enjoy their meals of crunchy peanut butter and infant blood. But for George, it would not suffice. 
 
 Using tongs so as not to contaminate himself, George reached into the cabinet and extricated the foul substance, which he then thrust into the already open trash compactor. Good. His house was cleansed of that evil; the exorcism was complete. 
 
 However, that solved only half of his problem: he was still missing the creamy peanut butter. He would have to go to the grocery store. 
 
 The grocery store, as always, was horrible. Mindless shoppers racing through aisles with their carts, broken pickle jars littering the floor, constant announcements crackling over the loudspeaker that were interrupted by jarring hisses of static, flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed furiously and stabbed the eye, and of course that one baby that would n't stop crying no matter how many times the mother attempted to coax it into silence. But all this would be worth it if he could only get the creamy peanut butter. 
 
 The peanut butter. That was the objective. Nothing else mattered. 
 
 Except for that his foot was run over several times, and that someone broke a carton of eggs onto his shirt, and that all three of the self-checkout machines he tried to use refused to cooperate, the trip to the grocery store was uneventful. 20 minutes after he had entered, George left the grocery store clutching his left foot. He may have been frustrated, injured, and covered in unborn chicken, but he was victorious. 
 
 After arriving home, George fell back into his usual lunchtime routine. It always went in the following order: jam, peanut butter, bread, knife, spoon; create sandwich, enjoy. It was a process he had refined to an art: after collecting all of the ingredients and the utensils, George would paint the peanut butter onto the bread like some student of Picasso; he would apply the jelly with the precision of a surgeon; and he would then gently place the second piece of bread atop his peanut-butter-and-jelly painting to complete the masterpiece. For the final touch, a diagonal cut -- never a vertical one down the center -- from the top right corner to the bottom left one. 
 
 Now that he had his creamy peanut butter -- not that nasty crunchy ooze -- he could begin his all-important routine. 
 
 Lovingly, George removed the jar of raspberry jam from the fridge and placed it upon the table. He carefully removed his treasure, his prize, from the brown paper bag, and set it down next to the jam. One jar of Peter Pan peanut butter, creamy. Worth far more than $ 4.29. 
 
 He headed over to bread box, already salivating at the sandwich he would soon enjoy. It took only a second for all his happiness to be destroyed as he looked at the bread box. 
 
 George slammed his fist against the counter and began to sob. O, Fortuna, the cruelest of mistresses! 
 
 He would have to return to that dreaded hellhole known as the supermarket. He was out of whole wheat bread.
