I suspect that the Superman underpants are reproducing. It's like the opposite of the underpants gnomes up in here. There is no way I actually purchased THIS MANY pairs of Superman underpants. (I mean, they came in a variety pack! And possibly got me on some NSA Internet watchlist.)
And yet we are disportionately overrun with JUST the Superman variety. They are everywhere. They are legion. There's a pair in the bottom of most of my handbags and there's at least one pair turning up in every load of my own laundry and no lie, there is seriously a pair sitting outside my bedroom door right now.
Just...sitting there. Watching. Waiting. FOR YOUR BUTT.
(I feel compelled point out that those are, in fact, a CLEAN pair. Like that matters, somehow. Like I've just finished painting a picture of a home where underpants run amok and lurk in every corner, where they litter the floor like an obstacle course, perhaps join us at the dinner table once they evolve and develop a sense of self, but oh! Don't worry! They are clean underpants. Because we have standards.)