Humor:
As ham sandwiches go, it was perfection.
A thick slab of ham, a fresh bun, crisp lettuce 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, picked it up with both hands but was stopped by my wife
suddenly at my side.
"Hold Johnny, (our six-week-old son), while I get my sandwich," she
said.
I had him balanced between my left elbow and shoulder and was
reaching again for the ham sandwich when I noticed a streak of
mustard on my fingers. I love mustard. And I had no napkin.
I licked it off.
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 my wife said, "Now you know why they call that mustard
'Poupon.'"
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