Vinny,

Is Jaimie's book accessible?  If so where can I get it?

Sharon
----- Original Message -----
From: "Vinny Samarco" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Thursday, July 07, 2005 10:03 PM
Subject: Re: My Washing Machine has a Demon


> Hi Phil,
> Jamie Buckingham wrote a whole book of those kind of essays called, " The
> truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable.  That is
> where that story came from.
> It was also his last book before he went to be with the Lord.
> Vinny
> ----- 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
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > > --
> > > No virus found in this incoming message.
> > > Checked by AVG Anti-Virus.
> > > Version: 7.0.323 / Virus Database: 267.8.10/43 - Release Date: 7/6/05
> > >
> > >
>
>