I may carp and complain about an inefficient NASA bureaucracy that has done naught in decades but produce a flying garbage scow of a government jobs program, but despite all the failing O-rings, abandoned manned programs, and diaper-wearing stalkers, sometimes my chest is filled to bursting with the swelling pride that makes the vast tax sink worthwhile. I mean, do you people realize that we have successfully completed a Giant Space Robot? Decepticons, Cylons and Thetans beware!
Someday this planet may be reduced to a wasteland, with cockroaches, brainiac chimps and Charlton Heston slugging it out in the radioactive rubble, but future space alien visitors will say "Hell's bells, Marge-10Tz3! Will you look at that 2-ton space robot? The arms alone must be eleven foot apiece! These carbon-based guys were really somethin'!"
As a bonus, the headline to the article read "Spacewalkers resort to banging...", confirming what we knew all along: There really is a Hundred-Mile-High Club!