On the American Foreclosure Epidemic

If my mortgage company ever tried to foreclosure on my apartment, I would make it a point to drop one in the center of my living room before vacating the premises to make sure that they got the message loud and clear: “This is a free country and I can take a shit anywhere I like, especially in my own house. That’s right, my house you smug pricks.” But I still don’t think that this would be a bold enough statement in the face of such hostility and animosity, in which case I might have to buy myself a horse and let it live in the house to leave big steaming piles of horseshit behind. This would serve two purposes: 1) The authorities wouldn’t be able to identify me as the assailant who left a pile of shit in the living room because my shit would be covered in horseshit… literally, and 2) the mortgage company wouldn’t be able to get a penny out of me in court because I would have spent my last $10,000 on a horse. Genius. The horse’s name would be “Ernie” and I would tie a little cowbell to his neck and feed him Papa John's. Of course, the joke would really be on the mortgage company if I let Ernie die and they had to find a way to get a 2,000-pound animal out of a 600 square-foot studio. Then again, I guess the joke would actually be on me since my apartment is paid off.