There’s a distant planet far away, home to a civilization at least as advanced and sophisticated as our own. They have split the atom, they have invented peanut butter, they watch reality TV. They drive around in solar-powered autonomous cars. They’ve developed warp drive, and can travel vast distances through space and time in the blink of an eye.
Why haven’t they arrived here? Why haven’t we heard from them?
Because they’re still wearing onesies, sleep sacks, and footy pajamas all the way into adulthood.
They’ve organized themselves into different gangs, identifiable by their clothes: there are the Striped People, and the Tutu People, and the Pastel Teddy-Bear People, and the “I Love Grandpa” People. Most of their clothes are either way too big or way too small, and any pockets are ornamental or (at best) nearly useless—too small, or sewn on at the wrong angle. They’re always tripping over their cuffs and they’ve got nowhere to put their keys, and half the time they can’t use their hands because their sleeves are too long, or the cuffs have been inadvertently folded over, and they haven’t figured out how to fold them back.
They’re constantly getting their socks wet, or sitting in puddles by mistake, and it takes them forever to change their shoes.
And just as they’re about to go anywhere—to conquer a distant planet, or even head across town for some groceries—one of them inevitably has to go to the bathroom, and everybody else has to wait around as the offender struggles all the way out of and then back into his clothes. And by then one of the others has to go, or somebody has spilled strained peas on her onesie, and everybody has to wait around (again!) while she changes into something else.
So despite their advanced technology and highly-developed social structure, they hardly get anything done, and instead spend most of their time struggling into and out of their clothes.