I can just see Gore, in the wee hours of morning, spending another sleepless night sitting in an overstuffed chair with Tipper curled up at his feet, and he stares into the glowing embers of a dying fire, wishing, rueing, regretting, resenting ever having had invented that damned internet.
Ain't life grand?
...With a 3/4 empty bottle of Southern Comfort on the coffee table (hate for you to miss the whole picture.)