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Skip Jones sat on the couch screaming at the television.  “What in the world do you know about lipstick, Cuban? I know more about lipstick and I’m a freakin’ football player.”

Skip’s wife Kitty wandered into the living room holding their newborn daughter. “What are you going on about? You’re not watching that show again, are you?”

This was not a new conversation. It felt to Kitty like it was getting more frequent. But Shark Tank only came on once a week. And when it did, Kitty could count on Skip’s unrelenting jeers in the direction of the TV. Nothing riled Skip up more than Shark Tank. But he had to watch it. Skip viewed watching Shark Tank the way Savion Glover viewed watching Dancing With The Stars – he was simultaneously infuriated by the incompetence of the amateur Venture Capitalists and energized by his accompanying feeling of superiority.

Cuban was the worst. How precisely did Mark Cuban think that his business prowess was worth a price cut on an investment in flavored lipsticks? As Cuban offered a mere $200,000 for a sixty percent interest in some hapless mom’s burgeoning lipstick empire, Skip was once again overcome. “Why don’t you make it seventy percent, Cuban? You might as well own the whole friggin’ company at this rate.”

Kitty shook her head in disgust. Skip’s latest outburst had awakened their baby with a jolt and the baby had begun to whimper. As Kitty headed into the kitchen to warm a bottle, she screamed back at Skip. “You haven’t been a football player in eleven years.”

True. He hadn’t been. But as far as Skip was concerned, once a football player always a football player.

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