Fuck you, Harry Angstrom.
Look, I get it; you want more lay-ups, and more lays, like you had in your virile high-school glory days. You want the fans screaming for another basket, the coach screaming that you're the greatest, and not
your lobotomized TV-addict-cum-lush wife screaming at you to go pick up another gallon of 2%. You don't want to sell cheap plastic kitchen doodads to anxious, medicated housewives with nothing better to spend their $1.75 on. You don't want to trade the shimmering hoop dreams of yesteryear for a domestic oubliette, for unceasing and compounding boredom, both professional and personal. But still, fuck you, Harry, you benighted, cow-eyed man-child.