The Fatty Elvis
Some say gluttony is a sin, but I say the Fatty Melt is a gift from God. You might call your mom's mashed potatoes "heavenly", but nothing really gets you on the fast track to the afterlife like a sandwich containing enough calories to keep a rowing team going for a month. God wants to be close to us. He's lonely up there in that big ol' blue sky with Robin Williams whining everyday about his wife being in hell. THERE'S A PRICE FOR SUICIDE FUNNY MAN. What I'm trying to say is; God needs some new pals up there, that's why he gave us a sandwich that can kill.
As a creation of man, not God, there's no way the Fatty Elvis could ever be as good as the Fatty Melt. Perhaps it isn't a heavenly meal, but the FE is at least on a purgatory+ level.
The extreme awesomeness of peanut butter and beef together was established long ago. Even the idea of using Elvis' favourite sandwich fillings to accent a burger isn't a new idea. Dangerous Dan's in Toronto has been doing it for years, and closer to home; Pink Bike did a variation on the Elvis Burger back in summer.
What made my Fatty Elvis adventure good? The delicious, yet underutilized, coupling of beef and peanut butter for one. After that, it's the same things that make the Fatty Melt a triumph of biblical proportions: mostly the melty, gooey fun of the thing. However, whereas the Fatty Melt puts you on a heavenly plane which is generally unattainable from just eating a regular cheeseburger with no condiments or other accouterments; the Fatty Elvis does not. Although it's nice, a regular burger with peanut butter and fried banana would likely be more enjoyable.
There is one other thing the Fatty Melt does for you that the Fatty Elvis does not: make you tired. The Fatty Melt tends to put one in a blissful, sleepy stupor: as if there's nothing else worth staying cognizant for after eating one. The Fatty Elvis, though fun, just doesn't create that same enchanted numbness. A nice experiment, but still an imitator at heart.