The Adventures of Mustard Man – Chapter 13

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I don’t consider myself a hero, but there are times when I feel good that someone has something to dip a chicken nugget into or for a hamburger.
It probably doesn’t make much of a difference, though, so I do my best to remain humble.
Dijon Lad has issues, though. He goes out at night in costume, fighting crime.
He sometimes shows up for work with his arm in a sling or with a black eye.
He’s been drinking more than usual, too. White wine and Dijon mustard are good for grilling, but bad for a commercial shoot.
Foolish kid.

What kind of idiot?

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We don’t like it when you call them retards. They’re gifted or special now.
Some of them do amazing things. They were called idiot savants, but we dropped the idiot part.
Political correctness. Bah!
See that drooling sack of crap in the corner?
Can’t tie his own shoes. Can’t put on a shirt. Barely knows to go to the toilet.
Put an onion and a cleaver in front of him, and he’ll dice that sucker up in less than a second.
Potatoes, celery, cucumbers…
Perfect little cubes.
He’s the reason we stopped doing Animal Therapy, you know.
Please don’t ask.

The Adventures of Mustard Man – Chapter 9

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Every seventeen days, a rabbi comes to the factory to look over our machinery, inspect the mustard seed and other ingredients, and then tell us that with absolute certainty that Mustard Man mustard is not Kosher.
Well, duh.
It’s not like we hired him to do this. One day, he just showed up and wandered around before saying something rude in Yiddish and stomping off.
Who is he? I’m not even sure he’s a real rabbi.
Do they have badges or licenses? Is there a serial number in that beanie thing they wear?
I think he’s an escaped mental patient.

On The Fence

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There’s nothing left to eat but soup. Everything else went bad while I was out.
I put the least-dirty pot on the stove and light the burner.
No electricity here, so the electric can opener is useless.
There’s a manual can opener in the drawer. Looks a bit rusty.
What the heck. It’s worth a shot.
Or not. It breaks on the lid. And there’s no pull-tab on the lid, either.
Great.
I put the soup can on the back yard fence, draw a bead on it, and squeeze the trigger.
Chicken and noodles everywhere.
I’ll be eating out today.

Thirty Pounds To Go

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Bob watched the man toss pizza dough up and down.
Up and down.
Up and down.
Bob drooled.
Just thirty pounds to go, he thought. I just need thirty more pounds.
Up and down.
Bob opened his wallet and looked at The Card.
LETTUCE, WATER, AND VITAMINS it said.
Up and down.
Bob tried to remember what a pizza tasted like.
His mouth tasted lettuce.
And water.
And the bitter pills.
Up and down.
Bob swore that once reached his goal weight, he’d bomb insurance company for rejecting his gastric bypass surgery.
Up and down.
Just thirty pounds to go.

Doctor Odd

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Doctor Odd received the express written consent of Major League Baseball on Monday.
By Wednesday, Idaho was gone. Totally vanished. Nowhere to be found.
The market reacted quickly. Prices for potatoes skyrocketed. “Would you like fries with that?” was whispered only among the wealthy.
Congress held weeks of hearings, but they never did receive an adequate explanation from the baseball commissioner or Doctor Odd.
He said he was just being patriotic and trying to make Syria vanish, but his calculations were off by a bit.
What I found strange was that nobody ever asked for him to bring Idaho back.

The Adventures of Mustard Man – Chapter 3

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So, you want to know the truth?
Fine. I don’t like mustard on my hot dogs. There. I said it. I’m a sauerkraut and relish kind of guy.
Happy now?
On hamburgers, give me ketchup, grilled onions, and maybe those bean sprouts they like in California. Or perhaps some guacamole.
After watching Pulp Fiction, I started dipping my fries in mayo. Before that, I’d drown them in nacho cheese.
The last Mustard Man put mustard on everything. And when I say everything, I mean everything.
However, the three teenagers they arrested him with in Bangkok looked more red than yellow.