“Little Briefs!”

When no one answered, Papa Underpants called again.

“Little Briefs!”

“What?”

“Get up here.”

“Why?”

“Just get up here.”

Little Briefs stomped up the stairway, groaning with each labored step. At the top, he found Papa Underpants fuming in front of the dresser drawer he and his brother Boxer Shorts shared as a bed.

“What, Papa?” he said.

“We’re leaving for school in fifteen minutes. You need to clean this mess up before then.”

“But Papa!”

“No buts. This drawer is a disaster. I asked you to clean it last night… repeatedly.”

It was true. He had asked repeatedly. And the drawer was a disaster. Hanging open, stray socks wiggling about without a matching pair in sight, the contents of the dresser drawer looked more like a clothes dryer’s vomit than a respectable place for young Underwear to sleep.

“Where’s your brother?” asked Papa Underpants. “Boxer Shorts!”

“Yeah?”

Papa Underpants spun toward the muffled voice. In the corner of the room, a pair of inside-out corduroys wriggled with Boxer Shorts--also inside out--stuck inside them. “Hmph,” Boxer Shorts grunted, struggling to escape the ribbed pant legs jutting through his leg holes. With his face reversed and jammed into the pants’ crotch, Boxer Shorts’ cries came out muted and garbled.

“Papa… help!”

“How many times,” Papa Underpants said, “have I asked you to pull yourself out of the pants before going through the wash?” He snatched up the corduroys and yanked Boxer Shorts free. Boxer Shorts gasped for air as Papa Underpants wrangled the kicking corduroys and chucked them into a nearby hamper.

“Hey, careful!”

Papa Underpants scowled at Little Briefs. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything!” said Little Briefs. “It was the pants!” Little Briefs pointed at the hamper, the crumpled corduroys glowering at Papa Underpants through plastic vent holes.

“Go home, Corduroys,” Papa Underpants said. “Boxer Shorts, you need to— My god, you’re damp! How long have you been in those pants?” Papa Underpants cast Boxer Shorts aside and wiped his hand on his hip. “You’re both getting a presoak tonight.” He held his breath and built up steam. “It’s a wonder Wash Services doesn’t come and take you away from me!”

Papa Underpants checked his watch. He looked at the brothers, making eye contact with each before carefully choosing his words. “We are walking out the front door in seven minutes,” he said. “Clean up this drawer right now and then come downstairs.”

“But Papa!”

Papa Underpants leaned close to the whining duo. “Do it,” he said, and disappeared down the stairs.

Five minutes later, Little Briefs trudged down the stairs, pounding into each successive step a bit harder than the last. Despite the performance, Papa Underpants kept his eyes on his current task filling a small starch pouch for Boxer Shorts’ lunch.

“Is your drawer clean?” Papa Underpants asked without looking up.

“Yes,” said Little Briefs.

“Thank you.”

Papa Underpants zipped the pouch shut with a precise vrp! and turned to face Little Briefs.

“Are you ready to go?” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Great… Boxer Shorts, get down here!”

“I’m right here!”

Papa Underpants looked down to find Boxer Shorts staring up at him, shaking his head with his hands held open in exasperation.

“Here,” Papa Underpants said. He thrust the pouch into Boxer Shorts’ open hands. “Put this in your knapsack.”

“Ugh!” Boxer Shorts said. “You don’t have to be so bossy!”

Ignoring Boxer Shorts, Papa Underpants returned his attention to Little Briefs. “Did you let the Dust Bunny out? I don’t want it dropping its particles all over the floor again.” When Little Briefs didn’t answer, Papa continued: “If you haven’t let it out, please do it now… we need to leave.”

“Papa! Why do we have to do everything!”

“Yeah, Papa,” cohorted Boxer Shorts. “You could at least ask nice, you know.”

Hearing this, the threads in Papa Underpants’ face pulled tight, his unaffected exterior no longer running even cloth-deep. He took a breath through his fly.

“The reason I get so bossy,” he said with the measured control of someone resisting the urge to shear through his children’s waistbands, “is because I feel frustrated when you and your brother don’t do what I ask. Little Briefs, please let the Dust Bunny out right now, and then we are leaving. Boxer Shorts, pack your knapsack and get ready to go.”

Little Briefs moped toward the back door. The Dust Bunny hopped along behind him, shedding a bit of dirt with each plop on the floor. Satisfied with their momentum, Papa Underpants spun around and nearly collided with Live-In Lingerie, his intimate apparelpartner.

“Hey, Papa,” she said. “Got a Diaper for you.”

The family’s new Cloth Diaper, sewn together just a few months prior, lunged from Live-In Lingerie’s embrace toward Papa Underpants. Excited to see him, it gyrated and bounced in his arms, and in its ecstasy, bobbed and bobbed and bobbed and then head-butted and barfed fabric softener all over him.

“Oh, that’s a good Cloth Diaper,” Live-In Lingerie said. She patted the Cloth Diaper on its bottom and smiled. Papa Underpants wished someone would pat his bottom like that. Or at least clean the sliming ooze off him.

“I love you too, Papa,” Live-In Lingerie said.

Papa Underpants tugged one of Live-In Lingerie’s straps and brought her close. He whispered.

“Help.”

Live-In Lingerie kissed his waistband.

“We’re leaving,” Papa Underpants said.

“Now.”

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