Enchanted mine own trousers

Good gentles, gather ’round, for I am a humble apprentice wizard (of two and twenty summers) who hath well and truly made an arse of himself.

It began most innocently. I had grown weary of scrubbing my breeches after long days of potion-brewing and swamp-trekking. “Lo,” quoth I, “I shall simply enchant them to remain forever clean.” ’Twas meant to be a small cantrip—nothing grand, nothing dangerous. A few runes, a pinch of stardust, and a hearty “Ablutem Eternus!”

At first, it worked beautifully. My trousers shone like new-spun silk, not a speck of grime nor whiff of alchemy upon them. I strutted through the market square like a man reborn.

But then came the trouble.

When I did attempt to remove them that eve, they refused. Nay—they tightened. I tugged, I pleaded, I recited the reversal charm (backward and forward, thrice!). The trousers but laughed—well, not laughed, but I swear I heard a smug rustle.

I sought aid from Mistress Tilda, the laundress. She came at me with soap and shears, brave woman that she was. The moment she touched the hem, the trousers sprang to life and seized her by the wrists! She fled, shrieking that I was “possessed of devilish drawers.”

Three clerics, one tailor, and a passing bard have since tried to free me. All failed. The bard at least wrote a jaunty tune about “The Breeches That Bit Back.” ’Tis popular at taverns now, much to my humiliation.

I have not sat comfortably in three days, nor used the privy without peril. The trousers do but hum ominously in the night, as if plotting rebellion.

So, aye. Today I f***ed up by enchanting my trousers to stay clean. They have become my most intimate foe. Pray for me.

Most excellent! Here followeth the court of publick opinion, drawn from the scrolls of r/TodayIFouledUp — where wizards, peasants, and assorted fools do gather to cast judgment:

[Top Comment] — by Archmage_42 Fool of a novice! Laundry enchantments are the tricksiest of magicks. Every wizard knoweth that cleanliness charms grow sentient after the third waxing moon. Burn thy trousers at dawn, ere they seek a host.

by Peasant_Tom_the_Stableboy Nay, mate, that’s on thee. I once tried to charm me boots to never smell of horse. Now they follow me ‘round the village like loyal hounds. Leave magic to mages, and soap to soap. YTA.

by SorceressOfTheSouth INFO: Of what cloth be these trousers? For if they be woven with moonthread or blessed linen, thou may yet unbind them with vinegar and apology. If they be common wool… I fear they have claimed thee as their familiar.

by Bardic_Barry 🎵 Oh sing a song of breeches bold, that never shall be stained nor sold, 🎵 They clasp’d his thighs both day and night, and squeezed him till he lost the fight! NTA, good sir. Thy suffering hath inspired a banger.

by Monk_Benedictus Verily, this is divine punishment for pride. Thou soughtest spotless raiment whilst thy soul remaineth blemished. Repent, and perhaps thy breeches shall loosen.

by Squire_Geoff_94 Just turn it off and on again. Try jumping thrice and yelling “Laundry reboot!” Works for me armour.

by QueenofSpindles NTA. The true villain here is whosoever first declared that men ought wash their own garments. ’Tis not sorcery, ’tis hubris.