I Love Mustard, Joke?

As ham sandwiches go, it was perfection: a thick slab of ham on a fresh bun

with crisp lettuce and plenty of expensive, light brown, gourmet mustard.

The corners of my jaw aching in anticipation, I carried it to the table in

our backyard, picked it up with both hands but was stopped by my wife

suddenly at my side. "Here, 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.

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, after she stopped crying from laughing so hard, my wife said, "Now

you know why they call that fancy mustard . . "Poupon."