Freddy said it best:
“Warthog is dead. Warthog remains dead. And we (but mostly 343) have killed it. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and riotous of all that the world has yet driven has exploded to death under our omnipresent power weapons: who will wipe this scorched metal off us? What burning rubber is there for us to splatter spree? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have for the devs to invent with frail vehicles? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us (and obviously 343)? Must we ourselves not become warthogs simply to appear worthy of it?”