Better Pants than Sorry


There was a bathtub, with a pair of pants splashing around.

"Why always pants?" the pants asked me.  I, for my own part, was standing there, beside a sink, hands wet up to the elbows, staring out the window, to do which I had to look down.  To be fair, I was hardly paying attention to whether what was in there was or wasn't pants - I could see a reflection in the glass, and I could hear splashing.

"I don't know.  Maybe because I so often deal with pants.  When i get up I have to put them on, after searching to find some; when I go to pee I have to unhook and unzip and unfasten.  I have to pull them down to take a dump.  Then again at the end of the day, I have to take them back off.  And their are always two pairs, the underpants and the outpants, dancing with one another in some incomprehensible waltz.  Or maybe I just have pants on the brain because the word is so... see, it's 'pant,' which is a verb, so that 'he pants,' is different than 'pants,' the noun.  And it's 'ants,' which is a plural noun, and it's about 'ant,' which is a bug, and it's like 'fant,' which is a good thing."

"blub," said the pants, at which point I turned to face the tub.

I wasn't surprised, of course, to find nothing there.  No water, no pants splashing.  Just residue, like was always in the tub.  I looked down and found that I still had my pants on.

I don't know.  Apparently, pants.