I'd never go so far as instituting a scorched earth policy, but I can certainly sympathize with this guy's plight after undergoing the Great 3¾ Inch Holocaust of 1988, where my mom decided before we moved that a fourteen-year-old was too old for Star Wars and G.I. Joe action figures and gave them all to my young cousin Matt, who promptly destroyed them in an ADD-fueled orgy of anti-toy violence that left dismembered plastic limbs with Kung Fu grips all over the killing fields of his bedroom. It was a dark time for the Rebellion.
Of course, I was fourteen and not a thirty-year-old living in my mom's house, so there's a slight difference.
There's this shop in Westminster Mall nearby that sells antiques and collectables, and it still enrages me when I see the Ewok Village, Death Star, Millenium Falcon, and Star Destroyer I had being sold out of the box for hundreds of dollars.
I had He-Man, Star Trek, M.A.S.K., Transformers (and their retarded cousins the Go-Bots), Voltron (the 3-foot tall remote controlled one), the U.S.S. Flagg, Robotech, a boatload of comics, a Superman pogo-stick, everything. I had the Jawa with the vinyl cape. It was glorious. Now they're all lost in time... like tears in rain.