The Great Pants Invasion, A Poem by Chris Russell

Pants were walking down the street all by themselves, and some were throwing themselves onto the windshields of cars, and causing accidents. Patrick had gone down into his basement and retrieved his welder’s torch. “I’m not going out without a fight,” he said. “You’re an idiot,” I said. “You have no idea what you are up against.” “They are pants,” he said. “You’re right,” I said. “But what happens when yours decide to turn on you?” “I’ll burn them up,” he said. A pair of Abercrombie jeans had gotten around the neck of Mrs. Steinman. Some thin wale corduroys over by the hardware store were kicking the McGilvery’s Doberman. “Pant-less and packing heat, we will prevail!” I said. They won’t fit anybody’s waist after we’re through,” he said. “Moisturize this!” I said. Patrick ran into a cloud of pants swirling about the common like a tornado and lit some up. Some pants had stopped looting Sal’s and noticed me. They cornered me back up against the front of my house. All I could do was run inside. I locked the door behind me. My wife’s pants were standing at the top of the stairs and looking like a bunch of mafia thugs. I ran into the kitchen and they ran after me. Pants are silent. I cried for Patrick and he came running in with a pair of chinos trying to scissor-neck him. “Do it,’ I said. “You only had to ask,” he said. He turned on the gas stove and held up the torch. The pants left the house in a panic. One ran into the desk and fell. Some went out windows and one went up the fireplace. “That’s right, run, you pants!” he said. “We may forever be in our boxers, but you’ll never take us down!” I said. “There are plenty of shirts and jackets out there that would love to be pants!” he said. I grabbed my jacket off the coat hook and stood in front of the window. “What do you want jacket, oh, to be on my legs?” I said. Patrick grabbed one of my workout t-shirts off the banister and duct taped it to one of his legs. He opened the front door. “Warm and toasty,” he said. “We can do this Patrick,” I said. “You bet your chicken legs we can,” he said. “It’s already over,” I said. “Pants lose, humans win,” he said.

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