Frank was not getting his pants back. That was just not happening. He had tried. He had failed. He had gone back to the TV. He had gotten back up to make himself some tea. He had looked at the massive collection of ceramic, silver, silverish, plastic, organic, and fungal objects inside his sink. He had said "Fuck it" and gone back to the TV again. He had fallen asleep thinking of his pants and of his sink full of life. Horrible, horrendous, hideous life.
He had a dream in which he got his pants back using only what he could find in his sink. The method that he had used to get them back was really quite ingenious. As he strode triumphantly down the street in his newly reacquired pants, he decided to make sure that they hadn't lost any of their vigor in their absence.
They were astoundingly comfortable as he ran. They would be as good as new, so long as he didn't soil them, should the hobo that was outside of Whitey King's Burger Whatever that he had kicked as a test catch up to him. It was the hobo's own fault in Frank's mind. No, Frank would not spare change for him. He would just spend it on booze or drugs. Frank liked those things much better than saving animals from Whitey King's wrath, like the hobo wanted.
Once Frank was confident that the horrible hobo would not catch him, he stopped to catch his breath and the hobo caught him. He started screaming a bunch of bogus bullshit bologna about the end of the world. The hobo was frightened by Frank's outburst and let Frank go.
Frank woke up.
He made himself a bologna sandwich. It was disappointing at best. Frank thought about his dream. He decided that he would never think about it again.
While he was not thinking about his dream, Frank went golfing. Or at least, he tried to go golfing. They wouldn't let him onto the course without pants.