Technically, it is our Amurrican, god-given usufruct to camp on this beach and if you’re implying that pooping on it is damaging it, then you can just march yourself over to the USSR, you god damn communist!
–Cindy “These Colors Don’t Run” Capleton
My future mother-in-law gave me a disapproving look to imply that she knew the only reason that I was marrying Mr. Reese was for usufruct of unlimited peanut butter and sugar in a milk chocolate shell forever and ever after. I shook my head in solemn agreement and acceptance of her accusation.
“Do you mean to imply that I spent the night here?” I asked the security guard as he prodded me with his nightstick. Indeed, it was very early. My eyes were still sleepy as I frantically rolled up my sleeping bag. “Well, I haven’t. And anyway, I paid admission. With those prices I have every right to enjoy the usufruct of the entire museum,” I declared as I unhitched my pup tent. Even I could sense an unpleasant self-righteous tone to my voice so I left, and silently vowed that next time I sleep in a museum I would pick a more secluded spot than under a brontosaurus skeleton.