The year is 2050. And you’re having a realistic panic attack.

You stand in your micro-apartment, shaking like a leaf, panting shallow breaths. You haven’t been able to get your anxiety or ADHD meds for months, the ones you need to heckin’ survive, as due to legislation from the RFK-run FDA your pharmacy has only been prescribing you raw milk.

You hear your door banging, the shouts of America’s Big Beautiful Secret Police ordering you to open it. You know it’s because you’re harboring your bull, Jamal, under the floorboards, who is an unregistered American. You feel a well of pity rise up in you for the poor thing. Don’t they know he has a human right to fuck your wife?

Today has been a cromulent crustfuckable of a day. This morning you cracked open your last Soylent from your stash using your opening robot, but found it was stale, having congealed into a watery layer and a more stringy congealed one, neither appetizing. You cooked a smuggled bugmeat sausage on your eco friendly induction stove, but you got too distracted watching a video essay and it burned.

And now, the pigs are at your doorstep, ready to take away the only joy left in your life and force you to go to the gym. You’ve been faking your fitness tests for a while, but you know that as soon as they enter the room, they’re going to violate your human rights by forcing you to do pushups.

What do you do?

• Take a shit on the floor