The curator of the National Mustard Museum is missing, totally missing, completely missing, missing in a large way, and is presumed, so sad to report this news to you, dead. As in totally dead, completely dead, and dead in a large way. The grieving widow dropped him at the museum at exactly 8:00 a.m. She remembers the eight o’clock news beginning the instant he stepped out of the MustardMobile with keys in hand, approaching the front door to the building that houses more than 4,500 different mustards from all over the planet.
The Curator is irretrievably missing. Strangely missing. Suddenly missing. And, we presume, irretrievably, strangely, and suddenly dead. The very thought of this circumstance makes fans of the golden condiment turn away from their normal joys. A pity, a shame, and a bad bundle indeed.
Curiously missing. Horrifically missing. Tragically missing. We must presume that he is also dead, dead, dead, in the same adverbial ways. You are wondering: how did this come to pass? Did he suffer? When is the funeral? Who is catering? Most important of all, what will the widow wear?
Actually, I think that could be a lot of fun.
