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.
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?”
“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.”
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?