Mustard juice

The smell of charcoal and roasting mammal wafts through the air as the Polish sausage/burger/fill-in-the-blank meat is turning a glorious shade of crispy red-brown on the grill. My mouth—my whole body—tingles with anticipation as I split open a fluffy potato roll. Heaven is literally in the palm of my hand and it’s about to be in my piehole. There’s only one thing standing between me and the Divine. I reach for the condiments and watch as…

It all turns to shit.

I flip or twist the top on the yellow mustard, aim it at my bun, and watch in slow-motion as mustardy juice squirts out of the bottle and turns my bun into monster mush. Of course, this clocks in at under a second so I’m helpless, hapless, unable to stop the stream of yellow mustard pee from raining on my meat parade.

My meal in ruins, I unleash my own stream of colorful spew, this time in the direction of the French’s bottle.

I forget about the mustard juice every single time I bust out the pondiment, so you could say it’s my own fault for not draining off the mustard spit in the sink before getting to the real deal. But I’m already full-up on the self-loathing so French’s, Ghoul-dens, Grey Poop-on, Hellmann’s, Heinz, and other purveyors of mustard, you can kiss my heinie…with relish.

Ketchup, you’d better watch your back.

(photo: flickr.com/photos/joelerskates/2179159595/)