Hola Mexican guys that run the fruit mart down the street from me,

My name is Casey, and I'm a consistent shopper at your delightful little fruit and vegetable store. Usually I find your selection of domestic and exotic produce to be fantastic. I especially like the Granny Smith apples for 99 cents a pound. When you're on the go like me, you never know when you'll need a boost from a luscious piece of fruit.

But I'm not writing just to praise your ridiculous low prices (how do you make money???), but unfortunately I had a bad incident with one of your mystery peppers – you know, the unlabeled ones in the wooden barrel that are like 17 for $1.29.

I happen to be a man's man and enjoy a little spice in my food, but this pepper was out of control. There was no warning at all on the cardboard price sign written with Magic Marker. I should have taken the hint when my butcher knife started melting as I tried to cut the pepper, then I should have known to just throw the pepper away when I needed my roommate's gas mask-bong to finish chopping up the pepper.

I threw the organic TNT into my usual Sunday chicken vegetable soup. I put the lid on and watched some David Bowie videos. I ladled myself a bowl of soup and GEE WHIZ was it hot! The economy is rough right now, so I decided to keep on eating this tastebud burning soup. Luckily, after a few bites my mouth grew so numb I could have been chewing on my tongue for all I know. So I ate the entire pot of soup. That, I'll take the blame for.

What I won't take the blame for is the fact that twenty minutes later all of my neighbors woke up because of my screaming while on the toilet. At first, like the rest of my block, I thought this yelling came from my mouth. Then I realized I bit my lips because I was in so much pain. Surprisingly, my actual butthole screamed in several different languages. That awoke my fellow Brooklynites.

Because of your pepper I did lose some weight and finally met the local fire department, but also there was some serious mental and physical trauma. My Hershey star is cauterized shut. The pipes in my bathroom rotted after each flush (after the seventh flush the copper eroded completely flooding the apartment under mine with steaming shit-piss).

I wish the Mexican dude who sold me this pepper would have given me some sort of warning, rather than look at me and just laugh. I thought he liked my "Street Fighter II" t-shirt. I still feel as if somebody stuck a live blowtorch on my anus.

So, dear local small business owner, first I would like you to never sell those spicy peppers to white people any more. It's not racist, it's for our own good. Our sophisticated European digestive systems were never meant for that type of intestinal damage.

Next, I'd hope you'd to pay the plumbing, ambulance and psychiatrist's bills. I would hate to call the Better Business Bureau on you. They have a lot of clout, you know. I suppose if worse comes to worse, I might phone the Immigration Department. I'm sure that cross-eyed Latino gentlemen with the broom in hand and rolled cigarette in his mouth wasn't a legal alien. I asked him where the pomegranate juice was, and he just looked at me with his googly opticals.

Last of all, I'd like a 27 cent refund on that pepper.

After all these things are settled, I'll continue spending my average $13 a week at your fine establishment.

Most sincerely,

Casey Freeman