Readers and social activists, there is an injustice taking place in today’s world, and every second we remain ignorant to the issue, more people will continue to get hurt. Many Americans have become complacent with their iPhones and Facebook, causing them to become desensitized to others’ very real misfortunes. Well, this is one issue I refuse to sweep under the rug. America: I, Ahmed Salah Mohammad Metwally Amer , do not have a pony.

You’re shocked, I know, but try to finish reading before dotting this newspaper with your tears. I was once like you, just another college student who would wake up, turn on the lights, take a hot shower, put on designer clothes, and if I felt especially proactive, I would put on a Save Darfur V-neck and some TOMS. Maybe before heading out to class, I’d read the news … on my Facebook and Twitter feeds, just like you.   But I came to my sickening realization as I was hastily crossing Hillsborough Street to avoid the homeless, as you all know to do. Far off in the Brickyard I saw a policeman mounted on a massive, creamy white horse. He had on Aviators that complemented his mustache perfectly, and a fluorescent jacket which made him stand out in a sea of red bricks. He had one hand placed on his hip, the other controlling the reins of the colossal beast beneath him. He slowly scanned the landscape ahead for signs of distress, occasionally glancing down at passersby beneath him. Men and women alike stopped to gaze upon his glory; everything seemed to happen in slow motion. I wanted to be him. He was an oversized belt buckle away from making Chuck Norris look like a pitchy-voiced, acne-covered schoolboy.   I did what anyone else realizing a grave social injustice would have done: three to five minutes of light Googling with intermittent Facebook breaks. I found some shocking statistics from 2007, which I assume are just as relevant today. Did you know that, according to the American Veterinary Medical Association, only 1.8 percent of Americans own horses? That means that almost 99 percent of people aren’t gaily gallivanting on their galloping geldings. I, for one, refuse to live in an America where 99 percent of the population is faced with such inequality.   For me, a horse would mean a lot of things: my love life would be improved tenfold; slap a buggy on the back of that bad boy, and you could have what I like to call a good buck. A horse would also help me get over my recently deceased minivan, Big Red. She broke down on 40 West last Thanksgiving eve. I don’t think it’s too much to ask for one horse to replace 100 horsepower.   America, help me to help you help me. Give this the type of attention any social movement of this caliber deserves. Make fashionable T-shirts and matching silicon bracelets. Share my story on Facebook and Twitter. This is the type of activism you don’t have to put on pants for. Shout until you’re hoarse for my horse, America.   And don’t worry about the neigh-sayers ; positive activism will always face criticism. Deep down, they really want me to have a horse, too. After you’ve supported the cause, don’t worry yourself with the details of how the horse will be fed, thus ensuring sustained growth of the horse. Don’t worry about paying for my equestrian lessons so that I’m able to control the horse. And don’t check back in with me to see how the horse is doing. Just stick to the mane point and give me my horse. Visit and ‘like’ the PONY 2012 Facebook page; it’ll help out the cause, somehow: facebook.com/ DONTTROTONME .