The other night, I went to Popeye’s to get some badass fried dead chicken pieces for Meggie and myself.  I am glad I chose Popeye’s over KFC because Popeye’s fried chicken is way more fried and chickeney than KFC’s lame excuse for “food.”  I don’t even know why people go to KFC.  KFC is for people who have given up on life.  I’m not going into that right now, though.  This is a LOVE story, not a HATE story.

The main reason I am glad I chose Popeye’s is because that is where I finally fell in love.

After waiting like thousands of hours for my bag of heart attack, the Indian/Arab/Salvadorian/Whatever guy who works there finally told me my food was ready.  I wasn’t sure how much American he spoke, so I gave him the international hand-gesture for “Thank you, you are awesome”: the Dokken heavy metal devil horns salute.  He didn’t respond, but I knew he got it.

Irrelevant.

I grabbed the chicken and went over to the condiments, and that is where I first saw it.  That is where I found the one thing that completed me:

Louisiana Hot Sauce

There were tons of these packets in the crusty, never-been-cleaned condiment container.  I love hot sauce, so I grabbed several handfuls of these packets.  After emptying half the contents of what I assume was free hot sauce, the Mexican/Scandanavian/Aboriginal/Whatever guy who sold me my food started looking at me like he was going to crash a plane into my head.  I gave him another devil horns hand gesture and rolled out.

I don’t even remember the chicken.  It was pretty much an accessory to my meal: packets upon packets of the hot sauce.

When I woke up the next morning, I ran to the bathroom and took the most explosive dump in human history.  I think I actually shat fire.  I imagined going to a proctologist:

“Give it to me straight, doc.  Am I going to die?”

“No, son.  But I do need to ask you, how did you get third degree burns in your colon?”

“Love, doc.  And not gay love.  The kind of love that can only happen between a man and his hot sauce.”

So it’s been like three days since I first ingested what are probably gallons of the most amazing hot sauce ever, and the romance is still there.

My supply of free Louisiana Hot Sauce is starting to dwindle, so I need to go to the store and buy all of it. 

I love that sauce so much.  I started putting it on everything: my pizza, my cereal, my eye drops.  I gave the pets some of it, and after they crapped fire for a while, they came up and spoke to me in Pettish.  “David!  Please give us more Louisiana Hot Sauce!”

This sauce is so amazing.  Take a look at that picture.  It says it is “THE PERFECT HOT SAUCE.”  That bottle is so humble.  Really it should say “THE PERFECT EVERYTHING.”

I got a call from the IRS the other day thanking me for my most recent payment to their Nazi organization.  I told them there was another payment on the way.  I didn’t mail any money, though.  I mailed a few packets of the hot sauce.  Now I don’t owe taxes at all anymore.  And either do you.  The IRS stopped taxing people because of my gift.  Screw Obama and McCain’s respective tax plans.  David’s Louisiana Hot Sauce Tax plan is the plan that worked.

This hot sauce is so good.  As I was brushing my teeth with it the other day, I had an idea.  Carl the Retard spends a lot of time licking up bird shit.  Why not hook that little guy up.  I brought a few packets outside and emptied them on the bird feces splattered across the parking lot.  Guess what?  Now Carl can read!

Seriously, Louisiana Hot Sauce is the best sauce ever.  I love it more than Jesus.