(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!'"