Captain Underpants is still out there, touring the land, his long-suffering family strapped to the roof of the car.
He is traveling the regions of the nation that made him The Loser. Of these there are many.
Unconfirmed reports indicate that he may be considering purchasing all or some of these regions. It is then believed that he will transform these properties into toxic waste dumps, deep-dish communication arrays for maintaining contact with the home world, garment districts for the production of magic underpants, and vast scientific facilities in which it will be determined if and how the bones may be replaced in his arms, and his ass rescrewed so that it is no longer on backwards.
Not long ago he was surrounded at all times by many hyper-alert Secret Service agents, who scrutinized his every move, and who would not even permit him to zip his own fly, in case this presented a Danger.
But these agents have since moved on to worthier pursuits, such as interrogating water lizards, and condemning cannon that have not fired a shot since the Harding administration.
And so today Underpants has been reduced to pumping his own gas, just like that majority of Americans he has bitterly flayed for voting for the black man, in exchange for the black man’s “gifts.”
Here we see him obtaining new fumes at a petrol station in La Jolla, California. One of his 217 homes is located in this community. The snapper of this photograph reports that “I talked to him for a good three minutes while he was filling his tank. I guess he’s moving to one of his houses in the town I live in, La Jolla.”
From the evidence of this encounter, and even in the photograph above, Underpants is not only fueling his vehicle with gas, he is also huffing it.
“At first he seemed happy,” the photog reported. “He was giggling and humming and singing snatches of ‘Puff The Magic Dragon,’ except he called it ‘Huff.’
“But then he began weeping and jabbering, demanding to know why ‘little Jackie Paper’ no longer ‘loved that rascal pup.’ He complained he had been promised a planet called ‘Honalee,” but apparently his ‘White Horse’ broke down before he could get there, and now he has lost his way. He went flapping towards the door of the gas station, crying for a map, but he was blocked from entering by the owner, who said he smelled like an overturned diesel, and should go away at once, before he went off like a bomb.
“He then tightened the straps on his wife Ann, who was attached to the roof of the car, and went roaring off down the boulevard. The nozzle was still in his tank, and he tore it out by the roots, screeching that he was off to ‘frolic in the autumn mist’ and vowing that ‘pirate ships would lower their flag when Huff roared out his name.’
“‘I’m Huff!’ was the last thing I heard him say, as he barreled round the corner. ‘I’m Huff!'”