I knew it, Horatio: a game of infinite customisation, of most excellent fancy: it hath borne me in its car a thousand times (and run me over in it now and again); and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rims at it. Here hung those blaggers that I have shot I know not how oft. Where be your N-TECs now? Your Agrotech DMR-SDs? Your rington’d songs? Your flashes of inspiration, that were wont to set the Mumble on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? Quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my administrator’s chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that.