With the rising popularity of a certain sugary tomato juice sauce, the world of amateur condiment experimentation exploded (not literally, though that incident would indeed occur years later). Enterprising gentlemen all over the globe sought to create the next big advance in making horrible meals more worthwhile and for inspiration they looked to the color wheel. As any artist will tell you, the exact opposite of red is yellow. It was a start.

The first few attempts to create mustard typically resulted in burns, eye trauma, loosened teeth, straightened guts, broken teacups, disappointed spirits and countless appendages glued to table tops. For this reason, mustard development was explicitly outlawed under President Eisenhower and similar legislation championed by temperance groups in other industrialized countries. But nothing would stop the can-do spirit of literal tastemakers. Mirroring the speak-easy culture of the prohibition era, hundreds of secret condiment workshops sprung up in every big city and suburb, each hoping to be the first to create the elusive yellow condiment.

But it wasn’t until the 1970s when a decorated soldier named Colonel Mustard decided to try his hand at condiment creation. One exceptionally lonely night in November, this guy blended together some vinegar, some Lawry’s salt, and some corn-based kitty litter into a big bowl, and by accident dropped in a metric kilo of yellow spice he’d found in his yard. To say the incident was serendipitous would be an incorrect use of the word. Mustard happened though.  Then at that very moment his wife BARGED into the garage and just threw the whole bucket of mustard right in his FACE. He licked his lips and whispered quietly, “I’ve done it.”

Although Colonel Mustard was executed for his crimes, mustard became a sensation. Legalized nationwide through a laborious caucus procedure, it wasn’t long before globs of mustard could be found on every plate, in every sack lunch, and in every glove compartment in America. Thanks to the brave men and women who did not stand for a mustard-less world, it was now safe to consume disgusting meals in homes, restaurants and automats.

My window is directly across from two party girls who get into the meanest, most hilarious screaming matches all the time. Imagine two women built like linebackers with wet-look perms and the the most awful chihuahuas (redundant?). Their arguments are loud, distracting and so over-the-top that I can’t do anything but listen. The best part is that they are also the worst arguers, constantly bringing up past grievances and being so personally brutal that I can’t believe they’re still friends. The following is my best effort to paraphrase what they’re arguing about today.

4:01pm Marla’s mad because Sandy won’t clean up the spilled shampoo and it might poison her dogs. Sandy said she would do it LATER, she’s TIRED.

4:02pm Now Sandy’s mad because she always goes grocery shopping and Marla sleeps until 3pm.

4:03pm Marla doesn’t like Sandy’s tone of voice, nor her evident hypocrisy.

4:05pm Marla has only swiffered once to Sandy’s twice.

4:06pm Marla has never once said “fuck you” because she’s more thoughtful than that; Sandy disagrees.

4:07pm Sandy admits that she can have a “shitty attitude” when she’s stressed.

4:09pm Marla insists that Sandy is insensitive to Marla’s mental health, and Sandy notes that Marla has not apologized for being an asshole for all of last week. Marla insists that she did indeed apologize for this.

4:09pm Marla is tired of all this “fuckin’ shit”. Sandy devolves into a coughing fit.

4:12pm Sandy attempts to end the fight by doting upon two awful chihuahuas. Marla restates her case with a calm voice.

4:12pm Sandy doesn’t know what the fuck Marla’s talking about, but she’s too tired for this shit.
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I think one time when I was 14, Marie Callender’s tried to PM me in the Alone@Home chatroom.