Ah, the mind of an eight year old.
Dash throws a ball around in the family room. “Don’t throw things inside the house!” one or other of us roars at him.
“I was tossing it,” he’ll tell you, with a cheeky grin. Or launching it, or dropping it, or catapulting it.
He thinks he’s so smart, with all his synonyms.
“What’s this? Can I open it?”
“It’s junk mail. Okay, go ahead.”
Dash starts to open the envelope, poking a finger around to get under the well-stuck-down flap, peeling off a little at a time.
“But don’t drop paper on the floor,” adds his father.
Dash squats down and carefully places his fragment of paper on the floor, and then the next and the next. He’s not doing it to be funny, he’s just doing what he was told.
He has no idea why the rest of us are in fits of laughter.