My son woke up this morning with a plaintive “WHHHHYYYYYYYYYY”, before rolling over in his bed and sleeping for another ten minutes.

I feel ya, kid.

Also, this:

This is the part of the day where I could go google what the heck a “thrown” olive is, but it’s much more amusing to me to imagine a couple of dudes (probably a little high) tossing olives across a room into a jar.

“No, dude, if they make it into the jar, then they get to stay there, and those we sell for twenty cents more.”

“What if we miss?”

*stoner pause*

“Dude, just don’t, okay? It’s whatever. Nobody cares about the ones that miss. The thrown ones taste better.”

“But what do we call them? They’re still just olives, right?”

*long stoner pause*

“Check it. Thrown olives.”

“Genius.”

Incidentally, I imagine this is a lot like a hand-spun milkshake. Which is a thing you see at a bunch of restaurants. “Hand-spun milkshakes!” With not a word to describe what that means. All I can imagine is that it literally takes a minimum-wage earning teenager to hold the cup in place while the milkshake machine does its thing, and occasionally spin the cup to make sure the “ice-cream-like substance” remains more or less homogeneous. Because having a machine do the job wouldn’t be … homey enough?