Samuella L. Chompers

Yesterday before the Penguins' game, yours truly decided to treat his little Poohbutt. So, he left work a little early, rushed through rush hour traffic, picked his darling, little child up from day care, rushed back through rush hour traffic all to take her to her favorite, little toddler park. It was a fine, no, perfect spring day, the kind that you don't get too many of here in our nation's capital. Mid-seventies, sun shining brightly, a nice cool breeze. Our hero and our hero's daughter were having a fine time of it.

However, time was running out. There was a hockey game to watch. Mother had to be met. Car and child dropped off. A train to catch.

Pooh had yet to go on her favorite slide (yes, that slide), the one she always makes it a point to go on. Her father had the bright idea that she would want to go on it before we left. He was just trying to avoid a scene.

So, he lifted her out of the little plastic car with the busted wheels that doesn't move. She wiggled a moment, whined a little.

"What's the matter, Pooh?" her father cooed. "We're just going on the sli---SONOFAMOTHERFATHERBURRRCOCKANOODLE!!!"

Yes, for all his troubles--leaving work a little early, rushing through rush hour traffic, picking his darling, little child up from day care, rushing back through rush hour traffic all to take her to her favorite, little toddler park--our hapless hero was introduced to his 18-month-old daughter's baby teeth. Right on the chest and clamped down with all her might. Mr. Writer discovered why those bad boys are called "incisors."

Yep, Pooh broke skin.