The Perils Of Gumbo-Meds, or, How I Stopped Worrying and Learned To Love The Hot Sauce

So yesterday, woke around five, and did my once-a-year Major Seafood Gumbo Par-tay - ten to fifteen different kinds of seafood, okra, file - the whole twelve yards. Oh, and Trappey's. It gots to be Trappeys Hot Sauce for it to be really gumbo-licious, ya dig? So, as I said, on my feet for hours and hours cooking, schlepping, hosting, serving, and wow, who woulda thought? Right about seven in the eve? Total foot crap-out, down like a pound-o-sox, hadda take mucho meds, still didn't do the trick. So, had more gumbo today, more Trappey's (oh, yeah) and I realize its maybe like folk wisdom (or malarkey?) but right now? Feelin' groovy, baby. 'Course, coulda been the Red Stripe. Just sayin'!

Well, it may not work for you, but either it did work for me, or all that seafood has me hallucinatin'.

Oh, no! I guess I've become a cheap drunk!

Discalimer: I ain't gittin' no cases of Trappey's for consideration of mentioning this total maximum flavor ride and back-o-the-head-blowin' goody, but if they suddenly discover this totally groovy review of their excellent stash, and have an unshakeable urge to ship me a lifetim supply o' this devlishly good stuff, who am I to tell them whhat to do? No, really! Who am I? Three bottles down, and I can't even remember what I'm doing right now. And what are YOU lookin' at? Darn pooch thinks I'm gonna share this wicked stuff with him! Ha! I say, Ha!

(Did I just say that out loud? Really? oops. Oh, no, is it all gone? Oh, the agony!!!)