The Legend of the Splotch-Tailed Texican!

OK, let's say for argument's sake that there's this guy who likes his pants. Not in a creepily perverse (yet oddly romantic) sort of way, but more in the line of "pants are hard to find that fit right, these fit perfectly, and I even like the color" style of liking pants.

Let us further stipulate that in the grand scheme of life, it becomes necessary for this guy to lean back against the trunk of a filthy car in order to continue a lengthy conversation with a neighbor. In the course of this leaning session, the road grime and assorted filth that coat the trunk lid gets applied to the posterior of the pants. When the well-liked pants are finally doffed in the evening, the big ugly spot is noted, and a resolution is passed to treat the stain well with a spot-removing agent prior to washing.

Be it known that for generations, the spray bottle of Shout spot-remover has rested in the same location, on the front left corner of the clothes dryer, in front of the box of Bounce dryer sheets, which in turn sits in front of the box of Tide detergent. The brand names might change according to the whims of the Coupon Gods, but yea, let it be carved in stone that The Sacred Order Of Laundry Paraphernalia shall not change unto the tenth generation! Seyla!

It therefore came to pass that the guy, in an attempt to remove the aforementioned pants-seat stain, ventures into the realm of the Laundry Room. He spreads out said pants upon the Altar of Cleanliness, and reaches for the spray bottle of Shout. He proceeds to liberally apply the cleaner onto the butt-covering section of the pants, and rub it in well. At this point, the heavens part, and a beam of light shines down upon the spray bottle, garnering attention from the guy.

The guy is aghast... There, in the spot reserved solely for the spray bottle of Shout, instead sits a bottle of Clorox Bleach cleaner, in an almost identical spray bottle. Oh, Woe unto thee that fails to visually confirm the unguents that the clothing is anointed with!

The offending cleaning agent is immediately washed away in cold water, and the pants are laundered as usual, with a fervent hope that the damage will be slight. Alas, this was not to be.

Upon removal from the Rotating Heated Tumbleuppagus, the pants are inspected. Much wailing and rending of hair and gnashing of teeth is to be witnessed, as there is a big discolored Splotch right in the center of the pants seat.

The culprit is quickly found among the household occupants, yet denial of responsibility is offered in return.

Is there not a reasonable expectation that a bottle left in the same location for years should never be replaced with another? Obviously not. I offer to fill up a salt shaker with rat poison* and set it next to the real salt shaker on the stove top, label both of them, and rotate their positions frequently, just to make sure people are always paying attention. This is not looked upon with any amusement.

Sigh. Off to buy more pants. I think I'll still wear the others, splotch or no. I'll just have to assume people will think that I have corrosive flatulence. Well, they've thought worse, I suppose.


*The rat poison on the stove is actually a true story... My dad's grandmother used to keep a can of D-Con rat poison on the shelf above the stove. It sat there for years, and it was no big deal until her sight began to fail and she insisted on continuing to cook. My dad and his 3 brothers were used to it, but their wives refused to eat any meals there until after the old lady died!