My 4-year-old daughter pointed at a sturdy woman walking toward us at daycare.
“Hey, look Dad, fat hooters!”
We blame the Steve Martin skit where he listed all the names people have for hooters. Toot toot.

Not to me, but to a friend of mine. She was walking up the stairs in her apartment building when a little kid, maybe six years old, was coming down at the same time. He looked my friend dead in the eye and demanded angrily, “Do you have any common sense?”
Then he continued on his way down, leaving my friend reeling in surprise.

My niece once asked me why I had strawberries on my face. I have really bad acne, and she was four at the time.

Back in the days when the Raiders were still in Oakland, my sons and I were driving across Oklahoma on our way to Dallas from Kansas City. My 11-year-old asked, “Dad, does Oklahoma have a football team?”
I told him no—they don’t have their own team and mostly root for either the Chiefs or the Cowboys.
My younger son, seven, piped up, “Why don’t they root for the Oklahoma Raiders?”
And that’s how we’ve referred to them ever since.
Oklahoma! Oklahoma!