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Once, while hunting bunnies in the backwoods of Mother Russia, I came across a Mexican conquistador who asked me the very same question. He had gotten quite lost, and was apparently confused as to which century this was, as he was mumbling about the Spanish Inquisition. He had been drinking the local well vodka, which actually was three parts turpentine to one part battery acid. He stared just above my right shoulder and asked how often I lied.
The conquistador, whose name (if I recall correctly) was Joe Bob Burrito Gorganzola McGillicutty, repeated his question. I answered truthfully, and he pointed a finger in the vicinity of my stomach. He screamed, "Prepare to die, you lying gringo macho combo taquito hombre!"
The poor drunk sod never stood a chance. I gave him the Salmayek Knucklebuster Grindbreaker of Illustrious Weeping and Calm. Chunks of him flew as far as Moscow.
Of course I was a liar. I'd just told him I was liar, now didn't I?
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