Got this email today from a friend. Don't know if it's a true story, but it sure did make me chuckle.

MUSTARD
_______

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 finger. Now, I love mustard, by itself or on a sandwich. I had no napkin, so proceeded to lick it off my finger.

It was not mustard.

No man has ever put a baby down faster. It was the first and only time in my life I have sprinted with my tongue protruding from my mouth. With a washcloth in each hand I did the sort of routine shoeshine boys do, only I did it on my tongue, over and over and over.

Later (after she stopped crying from laughing so hard) my wife said, "Now you know why they call that mustard 'Poupon.'"