This was too funny ans true, think our washer has this demon too.
----- Original Message -----
From: "Phil Scovell" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Thursday, July 07, 2005 7:24 PM
Subject: Fw: My Washing Machine has a Demon


A friend recently emailed this to me.  I've read things like it before but
this one is pretty good.

Phil.

> My Washing Machine Has a Demon
> by Jamie Buckingham
> After years of theological debate, I finally discerned why our
> thirteen-year-old Ripmore washing machine has been losing socks. It's
> possessed. I mean,
> possessed as in demons. In short, I am convinced we have a sock-gobbling
> demon in our washing machine.
> Now every kingdom person knows that mere recognition of the fact that you
> have a demon is ninety percent of the deliverance process. Most folks
would
> rather
> have cancer than have a demon. My Ripmore has that, too, but it's the
> sock-gobbler that really got my attention. My wife disagrees. She comes
from
> the
> theological school that says Christians (or washing machines owned by
> Christians) can't have demons. I, on the other hand, believe a washing
> machine can
> have anything it wants to have.
> "If there really is a sock-gobbler," Jackie asked, "why does he eat only
one
> sock out of a pair? If one sock fills him, why doesn't he eat the spare
sock
> his next meal?"
> I had no answer. I only knew he was there. To prove it I went up to my
> dresser, opened my sock drawer and pulled out the seventeen unmatched
socks
> that
> I've been saving-widowed victims of the sock-gobbler. And that's just
> today's count. Each month or so I take a census. Like our church in
Florida,
> the
> widows seem to be increasing in number. In fact, looking out over our
> congregation Sunday after Sunday, it seems we're producing more widows
than
> new babies,
> but maybe that's because the new babies are always in the nursery and
widows
> seem to bunch together, like raisins stuck in the bottom of the box or
socks
> in the back of my sock drawer. That's the reason I hate to throw away the
> singles. Every time I start to do it I think, "Now if you were left
without
> a
> mate, would you want someone to throw you away?" And I think about the
> running dialogue on worthlessness I used to have with Jackie during her
> monthly
> three-day, nobody-loves-me period.
> "The only reason anyone tolerates me is because I'm married to you. If you
> were to drop dead-people would forget I even exist."
> I kept reminding her I planned to live to be 100. Facts, however, never
faze
> a woman during her monthly three-day, nobody-loves-me period. And that's
the
> reason  I can't ever bring myself to throw away any of those widowed socks
> which keep increasing after every wash. In fact, I've been thinking
recently
> of putting my  underwear in the same drawer with the knit shirts I can't
> wear any more since our Ripmore shrank them all to grandchild size and
then
> of
> setting up an entire  drawer for single socks. I mean, churches used to
have
> widows' pews, and we have a singles' group that meets on Tuesday nights,
so
> why not a separate drawer  for my recently bereaved socks?
> The real reason I keep my unmatched singled, however, is that I keep
hoping
> their mates will somehow reappear. It never happen. each month or so I
take
> them  out of the drawer and sadly line them up across the bed, looking
> vainly to see if I can match any of them with each other. I never can.
> Expensive
> racquetball socks, formal blacks, blues, greens, grays, fuzzies- all were
> favorites, but without mates they're useless.
> So I gently stuff them into the back of my sock drawer and wonder if I
> should form a club: Socks Without Partners.
> At first I thought it was Jackie's careless washing procedures.
> " The reason my socks don't come out even is you don't put them in even!"
I
> howled when my most expensive and favorite pair of socks become a single.
> "Not
> so,"  she argued. "I gathered them two by two. Believe me, Noah didn't do
a
> more complete job. I took two pairs from your shoes under the bed, a pair
of
> wet ones out of your boots, a stiff pair from the ceiling of the closet
> where you had kicked them when you came in from racquetball, a mud-caked
> pair from
> under the front seat of your pickup, a moldy pair from under the dryer-"
> A-ha!" I screamed. "I bet the rest of the mates are under the washing
> machine." However, my search turned up nothing but a bucketful of lint,
> three green
> pennies, two rusty washers, a twelve-year-old skate key and a flea collar
> from our cat, Mrs. Robinson, who preferred to scratch rather than be in
> legalistic
> bondage.
> "Inside this washer is a little trap door that pulls in one sock from each
> pair and holds them captive," I concluded. "Somewhere in this machine is a
> secret
> treasure chest of mismated sock."
> Several years ago I was greatly embarrassed when I stepped off the plane
in
> Washington, D.C., for a book editorial meeting and discovered I was
wearing
> one blue sock and one gray one. I explained to my snickering friends that
> these were the only ones in my drawer when I got up that morning to catch
> the
> early flight.
> A week later I received a package in the mail from my friend John
Sherrill,
> who had been at the editorial meeting. It contained a little mesh nylon
bag
> with a zipper across the top. "Put your socks in this before you put them
in
> the machine," John wrote. "Then the sock-gobbler can't get at them."
(John,
> you see, agrees that
> washing machines can have demons.)
> But he misjudged. The sock-gobbler not only ate my socks, but it also ate
> the bag. "The machine is possessed!" I screamed at Jackie.
> "Oppressed," she said, trying to straighten out my theology, "not
possessed.
> See, your maroon socks always come out perfectly."
> She's right. I hate the maroon pair. The elastic is stretched out and they
> have a big crease across the top, so every time I put them on they rub a
> blister
> on the toe next to my big toe. They come out of the washer even when you
> don't put them in. In fact, I distinctly remember dropping them in the
trash
> one
> night after my wife had gone to bed. The next evening I was in the den
> watching the news on television when Jackie came out of the utility room
> with an
> armload of clothes. I couldn't believe my eyes. On top of the stack were
> those ugly maroon socks. I knew then I was dealing with something more
than
> trap
> doors. Oppressed, possessed-this was no time to get hung up on theological
> semantics. The machine had a demon and needed deliverance.
> The next morning, after Jackie had gone to a Bible study, I went upstairs
> and pulled out my mismatched socks. I laid them on the bed. The only socks
> left
> in my drawer were some black fuzzy ones that had shrunk up until they
looked
> like those little things golfers pull over the heads of their clubs, two
> pairs
> of racquetball socks with the tops stretched out so they looked like
> shopping bags and, of course, the maroon pair.
> I went out the next day and bought ten pairs of new socks, all the same
size
> and color. Then I stopped by the church office to see if someone with a
> deliverance
> ministry would come out to the house. The church secretary suggested I
> switch to a Maytag. She grew up in the Church of God and doesn't believe a
> washing
> machine can have a demon either, especially a born-again Ripmore with a
> sanctified lint-trap. She told me frankly that, if I wanted the demon out
> (assuming
> there could be a demon, of course), I would have to exorcise it myself.
> I was reminded of the British statesman who, on his deathbed, was
counseled
> by his priest to "renounce the devil."
> "Sir," the dignified old sinner answered, "when you're in my position you
> can't afford to agitate anyone."
> I decided to leave the Ripmore alone-it just might start in on my
underwear.
> Since Sears doesn't make the kind I like any more, I can ill afford to
lose
> any underwear.
> Not long ago Ann Landers wrote about sock-gobblers. Nearly 8,000 readers
> wrote back saying they had the same problems. One fellow from Nyack, New
> York,
> wrote that the socks die and are reincarnated as wire coat hangers. If you
> don't believe it, just go look in your closet.
> Another said it had bothered him for years because he was sure his wife
had
> a lover with one leg. He finally determined it was UFOs with magnets that
> drew
> his socks into outer space. No one, so far, has been able to disprove his
> theory.
> A woman from Billings, Montana, said she called the repairman and he found
> twenty socks wrapped around the motor of her Ripmore-a discovery which
saved
> her sanity since she felt for years she had been going slowly nuts.
> When I got brave enough to expose the sock-gobbler in one of my magazine
> columns, people from all over the nation were set free. Most of those who
> wrote
> said that they had been in bondage for years to the false theology that
> washing machines can't have demons. Scores told me that, armed with the
> truth I
> had given them, they went boldly into their utility rooms and cast the
demon
> out of the machine. Several said they distinctly heard it leave the
machine
> and go down the drainpipe.
> Not all were so spiritual, however. About half a dozen-humanists, no
> doubt-said it was simply a matter of the socks getting separated and being
> swept away
> in the spin cycle. Two of those, who I assume were Roman Catholics, said
the
> missing socks were now abiding in sock purgatory in my backyard septic
tank.
> Three others sent me packages of little plastic rings that were made
> specifically to keep socks from being separated in the washing machine.
You
> pull the
> toes of your socks through the little teeth inside the rings and drop them
> into your Ripmore. I tried it. The rings came off and got down inside the
> whirling
> mechanism of my machine. I was upstairs when it happened but heard the
house
> beginning to vibrate. By the time I got downstairs to the utility room,
the
> washing machine had come off its rubber feet and had clunked its way over
to
> the fiberglass sink on the other side of the room, bashing all the
plumbing
> out from under it. There was water everywhere. The washer was making a
> horrible noise and it smelled like burnt rubber. I was ashamed to tell the
> nice
> Ripmore repairman, who arrived nine days later, what had happened. But I
did
> determine that the cure was worse than the disease--which is what I now
call
> the sock-gobbling demon since my mother-in-law moved in. She's a Primitive
> Baptist who doesn't believe in demons at all. (It's far more respectable,
> I've
> discovered, to have a disease than it is to have a demon.)
> Of Course, the sock-gobbler hasn't touched the plastic rings. (Maybe it
was
> because he couldn't chew them up.)
> Many sympathetic people, hearing of my need, have written helpful notes
> advising me how to solve my problem. Some say I should pin my socks
> together, others
> say tie them together, and one woman said she always stuffs them into the
> pockets of her husband's pants. One woman from Hendersonville, North
> Carolina,
> even wrote a poem entitled "Oh, Where, Oh, Where Is the Other Sock?"
> (Sung--at least every other line or so--to the tune of "Oh, Where, Oh,
Where
> Has My
> Little Dog Gone?")
> They're under the bed or caught in the casters,
> Or clinging to the basement rafter.
> Trapped in the plumbing, stuffed in a shoe;
> In darkened corners hiding from you.
> They've gone to the camp, returned alone,
> Been kicked off by the telephone.
> An argyle lined a starling's home,
> A striped sock found its way to Rome.
> Perhaps there is an "odd sock" elf,
> Who takes them to some woodsy shelf.
> But truthfully I know their fate,
> The dirty ones disintegrate.
> I'm grateful for all the people who across the years have shown concern
for
> me in my affliction. I am now convinced that Paul's mysterious "thorn in
the
> flesh" was in actuality a sock-gobbling demon that accompanied him on all
> his missionary travels, causing him to be the laughingstock of churches
> throughout
> Asia Minor.  It's embarrassing, you know, to show up for a catacomb
meeting
> wearing one brown sock and one blue one. And when all your shoes are open
> sandals,
> there's no way to hide the fact that, while your preaching may be saintly,
> your washing machine is definitely possessed.
> It is doubtless for this reason Paul began washing out his socks by hand.
> This was especially important after he arrived in Macedonia because the
> Greeks
> would never have submitted themselves for deliverance to a man who
obviously
> could not exorcise the demons from his own washing machine. (Several
> renowned
> theologians interpret Acts 16:13, which in most Bibles reads, "On the
> Sabbath day we [Paul and Luke] went outside the city gate to the river,
> where we
> expected to find a place of prayer, " more accurately to mean "where we
> expected to find a place to wash our socks.")
> Recently I've decided to follow Paul's example, washing my socks out by
hand
> and hanging them on the shower rod. However, our oldest son, who lives
with
> us, wears socks the same size as mine. Each time he wears them they
> disappear completely. Not just one, but both of them--before they even get
> to the machine.
> Early in the morning he comes in and gets mine off the shower rod,
stretches
> out the tops, tears holes in the toes and leaves them on the back porch
> stuffed
> into his shoes when he comes in from work.
> Like the folks in my church in Florida, old socks never die; they just
fade
> away.
>
>
>
> "Determine that the thing can and shall be done, and then...find the way."
> Abraham Lincoln
>
>
>
>
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