What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little bitch? I’ll have you know I cooked with the top chefs of my spanish class in the Embajada de Mexico, and I’ve been involved in numerous dinner parties on Mexico DC. I am trained in mexican cuisine and I’m the top cocinero in the entire US armed forces. You are nothing to me but just another person who eats at Target. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me over the counter? Think again, cabron! As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across Mesoamerica and your order is being traced right now so you better prepare for the pedorrea, maricón. The diarrea that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your bathroom. You’re fucking dead, pendejo. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my tacos del pastor. Not only am I extensively trained in cooking without implements, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the United States of hot chilli peppers and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the continent, mierdita. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little “clever” comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you goddamn idiot. I will cook spicy mexican soup all over you and you will drown in it. You’re fucking served, kiddo.