An Abba-Zaba Situation

"Scotty, can you come down here a sec?"  The youngest appears, hair rumpled, outside his bedroom door.  "Am I in trouble?"  "Just come here."  He makes his way down the stairs.  "Open your mouth," I say.  He gets a look.  "You know?"  "Of course, I know."  "But how?"  "You posted it on Facebook:  Chipped my tooth on an abba-zaba for the second time. C'MON MANNNN." 

He shakes his head.  "Oh, @#$%!  I forgot."  Serves him right for friending me.  His oldest brother refuses on principle.  Smart dude.  Scotty opens his mouth and reveals his chipped front tooth.  "How many times must we go over this?  Abba-Zaba is evil.  Capital E-V-I-L."  Now he flashes those puppy dog eyes.  "But it's so good."  I wouldn't know.  I haven't had an Abba-Zaba since I got braces in junior high.  Fingers crossed:  I think they're coming off next week. 

At the dentist's yesterday, we're barely in the door.  "Abba-Zaba?" asks the doctor. Scotty looks at me.  "Did you tell him?"  "Of course not."  The tooth-man points to the chair.  "I took a wild guess.  It was Abba-Zaba two years ago.  See, I wrote it on the chart."  "Oh, man," Scotty says.  I tap Scotty on the knee. "That's it for the Abba-Zaba." "But it's so good," says the youngest.

The dentist shoves a tube in Scotty's mouth, and like all in his line of work, starts to chat.  "So, Scotty, Santa Cruz in the fall?" Scotty makes gurgly sounds.  "You know, I don't generally make dorm calls, but -- "  More funny gurgly sounds.  I intervene. "Scotty's done with Abba-Zaba.  Aren't you, honey?"  Scotty gurgles something that sounds like, "hell, no."  "Better keep a bag packed," I tell the dentist, "just in case."