The Tale of Captain Gassypants.

I’m still working on the Orchard Cross race report, but it’s so tediously long-winded and self-indulgent that I may not be done with it until the weekend.

In the meantime, I’d like to answer the question I’m inevitably asked when one of my readers meets me for the first time.  Actually, it’s the second question.  The first one is usually, “Why aren’t you wearing any pants?”  Then, while they wait for the police to arrive, they’ll ask me, “Why is your friend/teammate/hetero life-mate called Cap’n Gassypants?”

It’s not because he suffers from copious and debilitating flatulence, although that would be pretty hilarious.  And disgusting.  But mostly hilarious.

We were driving to a time trial back in 2008, and, low on fuel and full on bladder, we stopped at a gas station.  As the Cap’n filled up the truck, I went inside to fill up the toilet.  [Sorry ... TMI?]  After flushing with my foot and using a wad of paper towels to open the door, thus ensuring that I didn’t come in contact with any of the surfaces in this delightfully hygiene free facility, I headed out to the truck and found the Cap’n wiping at the front of his pants and cursing to himself.

What he was upset about was the fact that the entire front of his crotch was soaking wet.  Realizing how upsetting and embarrassing this must have been for him, I very sympathetically remarked, “Dude, if you needed to piss that bad, you could have gone first!”

Apparently, the auto-shutoff … uh … thingy … that makes the pump stop when it’s full wasn’t working, and as he stood there daydreaming about having a really cool nickname, the Cap’n suddenly felt his crotch getting cold, and looked down to see gas spewing out of the tank … all over his pants.

Heh.  Heheheh.  Ha ha ha ha ha!

Anyway, as we drove the final few miles to the event — windows open to let the stench of gasoline out, and the frigid morning air in — I decided that anyone who soaks his own balls with gas deserves my everlasting derision, and declared that henceforth, he would be known as Captain Gassypants.  I promoted him to Captain, because calling him Mister Gassypants would be ridiculous.

He kicked my ass in the time trial that day.  Karma’s a bitch.

3 responses to “The Tale of Captain Gassypants.

  1. And all this time I thought you guys had a gasoline fight, Zoolander-style!

  2. I think I might wet my pants laughing.

  3. Cap'n Gassypants

    I’m just glad my nickname didn’t end up being Cap’n Balls on Fire

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