It's Hard Out Here for a Pig

Reginald P. Banker was a simple pig. A pig of character and values. A stand up pig. And unfortunately, as we have learned just recently, a pig who would take his earthly body as far as it could possibly go.

We could spend days, even weeks in mourning over our dear Reginald's passing. We could revisit the scene of his demise, which you can see on the left. We could count the change spilled out into the cardboard box he was being moved in. Or maybe we could talk about the life of this modest pig.

Reginald's life can only be summarized as the quintessential underdog story. Growing up in a working class family from Ohio, Reginald attained an academic scholarship to attend the University of Maryland. After earning a degree in Finance, Reginald started his own bank with nothing but a sharp wit and a drive to succeed.

However, tough times soon followed. Reginald's business model was flawed at best. Not only did Reginald's bank lack the security of FDIC insurance for deposits, Reginald also did without the standard banking practices of "charging fees" and "giving out loans to make a profit". The weight of financial uncertainty was a constant drain on Reginald. Well, that and the weight of all of the money he had to carry with him everywhere he went.

Reginald was struggling, but he still managed to put a roof over his head. But one day the housing crisis started. And the wolf huffed, and puffed, and... charged a much higher interest rate than Reginald was expecting, forcing him to sell his home in a buyers market in which he wasn't able to raise enough money to pay his variable rate mortgage off, causing him to go bankrupt.

But if you thought that our friendly banker had taken all the damage he could stand, you'd be dead wrong. As if financial woes weren't enough, a version of the flu with sources in Reginald's very own species started to spread all over the globe. The Swine Flu, or "The Flu" as Reginald called it, reached the United States, and eventually Reginald himself contracted it.

Despite repeated warnings, Reginald opted out of special treatment, and during our move to our new apartment, Reginald decided he wanted to be shipped with the other random items found throughout my living space. "Dang it Steve, *cough* *cough*, if I'm gonna go down, I'm going down with my friends, *cough*, not in some bucket seat with a seatbelt holding me down, *ailing vomit*".

In the end, I hope that we can all remember Reginald not for his grotesque appearance when glued back together, but for that charming orange tie that he wore with so much pride. Let's not remember him for the change we hoped he would hold for us, but for the hope for change that he held for us all.

Goodbye little buddy. I don't know where you are, but I hope you're going wee, wee, wee, wee, all the way home.