Possessed pants present possible problem

My pants are possessed. Let me clarify.

Tuesday evening, I was standing in my living room, folding clothes and watching one of my favorite movies of all time, “Sixteen Candles.” All was well until I started hearing a faint voice calling my name.

I ignored it.

I heard it again. This time, it was a little louder. And it was yelling. This mysterious voice, this mysterious muffled voice, was yelling at me.

I began to feel like I was in one of those situations ubiquitous in horrible horror flicks. One of those situations that starts out with someone hearing their name then ends with them dying in a horrible kitty litter incident.

My mind started freaking me out as I begin to fervently look for the source of the voice. Is it the television? No. It was off. Is it the radio? No. My son was napping and the radio was playing ocean sounds for him.

The voice was coming from ... my pants.

There was a voice in my pants.

Good creator almighty, there was a voice in my pants. My pants had to be possessed. That was the only possible answer. I began to think of what steps I had to take to have my pants become unpossessed. Could I sprinkle holy water in the washing machine and put the pants in there? Where was I going to get holy water? I’m a Nazarene — do I even believe there is a such thing as holy water?

No, I don’t believe water can be blessed. Great, there’s no such thing as holy water. What was I supposed to do??

Do I grab my Bible and hit my pants with it? Would I get in trouble with God for using his word to try to smack the evil out of my pants? I think He’d understand. I ran through the Ten Commandments really fast in my head. I couldn’t recall a commandment about “don’t use the Bible to hit your pants.”

I tried to make a split-second decision: should I take the pants off first or just start beating them right away?

I still wasn’t sure about how the Big Guy would feel about me hitting something with the Bible. I remembered all that fire and brimstone from the Old Testament and decided — wisely — to come up with another tactic.

Wait. I’ll confront the screaming voice and tell it to get out of my house. I’ll steal a line from Spongebob Squarepants: “GET OUT OF MY HEAD! LEAVE MY BRAIN ALONE!”

I reached into my pocket to pull out the voice. There, I found, in my hand ... my cell phone. I looked at the display. I had forgotten that 30 seconds before I started hearing the mysterious, muffled voice, I had turned it on, pressed all the necessary buttons to put the phone on “key lock” so the numbers couldn’t dial themselves without my consent, then shoved it in my front jeans pocket.

I was confident, before that moment, in my ability to operate “key lock,” yet my display was telling me that I had failed in my effort to operate “key lock.”

My pocket had made a phone call. I was mortified. At the split-second of realization, I was so embarrassed I wanted to throw my phone across the room and swallow my face whole. So, instead, I hung up.

After I gathered myself, I called the person my pants had called and explained what happened. She laughed and promised to not tell anyone. I trusted her, but decided to come clean anyway.

Wow, I feel so pure now. Stupid, but pure.

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