It was a gimme.
Now and again, you have to let him have one.
I imagine him sitting at his desk, with his hockey-helmet on, then jumping-up and dancing around his padded room in a fit of wild frenzy as he read my reply.
Then his Khandler hit the remote-control on the garage-door opener tethered to his back, yanking him off his feet. Afterward, they hit him with the firehose to calm his ass down.
('zat long enough for you, kay pee?)