Take That Chimichanga and Shove It

I might have this co-worker, let's call him Zeke.
Zeke rarely has clients. Yet, almost everyday, Zeke will walk from his office to my desk to place a lunch order with me. At first, I took it in stride. I mean, it's just a food order right?

Wrong.

Zeke will place an order with me when the office looks like a battlefield in Iwo Jima. People are calling me, yelling at me. I am printing shit in other rooms, trying to get packages ready for messengers. There are like, fifteen people buzzing me on the intercom, bitching. Yet, there Zeke stands, the fat bastard, waiting to put in his lunch order.
In the time it takes Zeke to walk from his office to the reception area, he could have ordered his goddamn beef chimichanga himself. And it seriously pisses me off.

My fantasy goes something like this:

"Listen Zeke. I'm not your fucking personal assistant. I don't particularly care to know what trash you put it your body to make it look the way it does. And Zeke, I'm fucking BUSY. I don't know if you noticed me running around like a fucking headless chicken, but, I really don't have time to order more food for your fat ass. You want to order a fucking Chicken Kabob with extra bread and salad dressing? Do it yourself."