An Open Letter to Mustard Water

Dear Mustard Water,

Hey mustard water. It’s been a while since you have infuriated me to the point that I would address you directly. You are an inanimate object, after all. I am aware that no amount of verbal beration will change your behavior or penetrate your universally applicable defense of “not being a living thing”. Still, this has gone on way too long, and I feel I must say something, mustard water.

Have you ever been forced to walk an old, gross, disobedient dog that nobody likes? While on the walk, did the dog ever stop and take a gigantic shit that you had to clean up? While you were dry-heaving and cleaning up the horrible dog shit from this terrible dog that nobody likes, did you ever look at the shit and notice indigestible items contained within the shit? Perhaps there was hair, a bit of a chew toy, or even an old tampon in there? Something that looks like dog shit, smells like dog shit, and is literally surrounded on all sides by dog shit…but isn’t quite good enough to be dog shit? That’s you, mustard water.

I’m not even a big mustard guy, mustard water. I once sat in the bleachers at Wrigley Field, eating a hot dog slathered with tomato ketchup. My idiot friends made fun of me between their giant gulps of Old Style, screaming that what I was doing was an abomination and a direct kick to the stones of William Wrigley, Jr. himself. Apparently, no matter what you do, you’re not allowed to put tomato ketchup on hot dogs. I don’t hate mustard, but I just didn’t feel like putting it on my hot dog that day. My point is that I am not a huge mustard guy, mustard water.

For example, if I was whisked away to 13^th century France and magically transformed into Pope John XXll of Avignon, I would not have created the position of “Grand Moustardier du Pape” because I liked mustard so goddamned much. I would have put it on the occasional sammich when I couldn’t afford the calories for mayonnaise…or maybe put a few drops on a corn dog here and there for a little zing. That’s it. I am not a mustard-crazy dude, mustard water.

That said, yellow mustard in a squeeze bottle has its place in the world, mustard water. Actual mustard has value and contributes to the meal at large. Sometimes, a few drops of mustard carefully squeezed out of a chilled yellow bottle is just the thing needed to complete a dish. I would venture to say that once or twice a month over the last 40 years, I could be seen judiciously applying a tiny bit of mustard to my food. In short, mustard can be a very good thing. You, mustard water, contribute nothing to the world.

On exactly 25% of those mustard-applying occasions, I have remembered the simple act of shaking the plastic yellow bottle and mixing you in with the general mustard population of the bottle. On those occasions, all is right with the world. The other 75% of the time, I grab the plastic yellow bottle, turn it upside-down and squeeze it like an asshole. You come tumbling out, mustard water, and soak whatever I am trying to mustard with old, nasty wetness…like so much excrement from a dog everyone hates. My buns are wet, my corn dog is limp and soggy, and my lunchmeat can never be restored to the proper mouth feel. You ruin everything, mustard water.

Still, despite being one of the most vile substances on the planet, you have my respect, mustard water. When my kids were little, I eventually learned to look at the bottom of the stairs for loose legos. After being burned a few times, I learned to smell the milk before drinking out of the carton in the middle of the night. It’s been 40 years, mustard water…and you still get me. I cannot think of an adversary that I have had in my life that has tricked me nearly every time. So, mustard water, I despise you, but I raise my ruined, soggy buns to you in a gesture of respect. I hate you. You are below dogshit; but, I know I can never defeat you.

With Respectful Hatred,

The Mockers