“Alright everyone, let’s quiet down.” Mr. Flannel picked a stray piece of animal hair from his chest before continuing. “We have another special guest this morning. Little Briefs, would you like to introduce your father to the class?”

Little Briefs stared off to the side of Mr. Flannel and remained silent.

“Little Briefs?”

“You already said he’s my dad,” Little Briefs blurted out. “What else am I supposed to say?”

“Okay, then. Class, this is Mr. Underpants, Little Briefs’ dad. Mr. Underpants is going to teach us all about his job as a pair of Underpants. Let’s offer him a warm hello, and if you have any questions, be sure to ask.”

Cowgirl Boot shot a hand into the air.

“Yes, Cowgirl Boot?” said Mr. Flannel.

“Mr. Underpants, what’s that brown streak on you?”

A surge of panic shot through Little Briefs. His Papa remained cool.

“Oh, this?” He rubbed the unfortunate skidmark on his frontside. “Well, see, we have a new Cloth Diaper at home. It can make a bit of a mess sometimes.”

“Aren’t you supposed to wipe that off before you go to school?”

“Sure, yeah, I mean… We were running late this morning. I guess it slipped my mind.”

Cowgirl Boot raised her hand again.

“Cowgirl Boot,” said Mr. Flannel, “I’m sure Mr. Underpants is excited to tell us about his job. Mr. Underpants, why don’t you tell us a bit about your work as a pair of Underpants.”

“Sure, I’m a Senior Undergarment at the Bureau of Chafing Management.”

Papa Underpants delivered his line and stood facing the class in silence. Most of the young clothes gaped at him like he’d grown an extra fly. Waiting to see who would break first was the sort of thing Papa Underpants rather enjoyed.

“What?” said Windbreaker.

Now Papa Underpants had them. “I’m glad you asked,” he said, putting his hands in front of him, palms touching. “See, when two surfaces rub against one another, over and over and over,” he mirrored this statement by rubbing his palms together, over and over and over, “they can become irritated. That irritation is called chafing. And underwear are excellent at preventing chafing!”

Papa Underpants opened his hands in a magician’s reveal, as if to say, Ta-Da!

Despite the class’s utter lack of interest, Papa Underpants caught his stride. His fascination with chafing began his fish-year at the Academy of Undergarments. He could riff on chafing for days: how the right combination of friction and moisture created untold discomforts; how that discomfort could be prevented; the heyday of breathable synthetics like spandex and polyester…

“Incredible stuff,” he said, staring wide-eyed through the young clothes. “Fabrics designed to attract, absorb, and then evaporate water-—unlike cotton, which simply traps moisture. And when compression undergarments hit the scene--forget it! You know,” Papa went on, “I even spent some time in the absorption ward myself.”

At this last line, Papa Underpants failed to hold back a dorkish grin. He looked to Flannel for validation, but the wrinkled outerwear appeared barely conscious.

“I heard you’re some kind of boss,” said Windbreaker.

“Yeah,” agreed Cowgirl Boot. “Little Briefs says you’re really bossy.”

“Does he? Well, sure, I mean, I’m the leader of my division--but here’s the rub. We’re a small team and mostly make decisions together.”

“So you don’t boss people around?” said Cowgirl Boot. She seemed disappointed.

“Not really. The team doesn’t need much guidance. Heck, we even have a fellow made from Merino Wool in my department. As you can imagine, he’s quite the moisture wicker. I’ve half a mind to wear him around myself!”

Papa Underpants laughed and the class sat before him like a collection of stone statues. The bell rang and Mr. Flannel returned from his hypnotic trance.

“Let’s all thank Mr. Underpants for sharing with us this morning,” he said.

The class intoned: “Thank you, Mr. Underpants.”

Mr. Flannel shook Papa Underpants’ hand. “Fascinating stuff, Mr. Underpants.” Papa Underpants smiled, knowing that, for the most part, his passions fell on deaf ears. Still, a tepid excitement seeped through him, like the times he himself was Junior Sized and would wake from dreams of being washed in warm water. He observed the children filing out of the room and wondered about the potential of their generation. The proprietary blends they’d create, how the dedication of the Bureau and those like-minded Underpants may one day end the plague of scratchiness known by crotches across the crackling flats and rolling hills and frigid peaks of [Clothesland]. Renewed, he followed the clothlings out the door and turned for the office.

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