The 11-year-old, in a VERY good mood, triumphantly burst into the living room where I was sleeping on the couch. I pretended to be awake.

HIM: Well, my room is que bar.
ME: Hunh? (sitting up now)
HIM: Q baaar
ME: I’m sorry, what does Q baaarr mean?
HIM: It’s C-U-B-A-R
ME: Like FUBAR?
HIM: Yeah, but not. It means “cleaned up beyond all recognition.”
ME: Oh! CUBAR.

I looked, and it is. Nice.