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(This is a true story)
If you have children you will probably relate to this.
As hot dog barbecues go, it was perfection. A nice juicy hot dog, a fresh bun, the perfect amount of ketchup and plenty of expensive, light brown, gourmet mustard.
The corners of my jaw aching in anticipation, I carried it to the picnic table in our backyard, and picked it up with both hands. But I was stopped by my wife suddenly at my side. "Hold Johnny (our six-week-old son) while I get my hot dog," she said.
I had him balanced between my left elbow and shoulder and was reaching again for my hot dog when I noticed a streak of mustard on my fingers. I love mustard.
I had no napkin so I licked it off. That was when I realized It was not mustard. No man ever put a baby down faster! It was the first and only time I have sprinted with my tongue protruding.
With a washcloth in each hand I did the sort of routine shoeshine boys do, only I did it on my tongue. Later (after she stopped crying from laughing so hard) my wife said, "Now you know why they call that mustard 'Poupon!'"
