Last week I sold one of my Land Rovers. I went back and forth in my head about selling. Do I sell it, do I keep it. Do I sell it, etc, etc. Finally I threw a number at the buyer that I figured there was no way that would meet and of course then said fine. I was pissed, but what can you do? My brother said the whole situation reminded him of a great exchange in the movie Heaven Can Wait.
Former owner: He got my team. The son of a bitch got my team.
Advisor to former owner: What kind of pressure did he use, Milt?
Former owner: All I asked was sixty-seven million, and he said "okay."
Advisor to former owner: Ruthless bastard.
Bastard indeed!
You will be missed!
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