Dear Christy,

I like to smoke weed, but I always cough so hard and pee my pants. At a party over the weekend I wet myself and I feel like an idiot. Don't suggest a pad, I don't like wearing underwear.

— Pee-weed

Get on the pot:

Shit's rough. You should probably throw yourself off of a roller skate and call it a year.

Fine. You have valid concerns. If I had a joint for every time I piddled when I cough, we could roll a seven-story blunt and fill Will Vill with the sweet aroma of cannabis and uri... Cough.


Perhaps you need a smooth strain. (That's what it says in the men's room.) Go talk to your pals over at (fill in dispensary name here). They're pros and they can hook you up with a "OG Dry Drawers."

(Do your kegels!)

Try ingesting it. Drinking it. Or rub cannabis lube on yourself. Take it as an enema. Jam it in your veins. The options are endless, really. Go talk to a budtender. Or that homeless man in your trash.

But first, change your skirt. It smells like Saddam Hussein's bedpan in here.

Dear Christy,

I've been together with my fiance for four years. He proposed three years ago. Do I have to plan this wedding myself? Am I ever going to tie the knot? Should I leave him?

— Forever Engaged

Belated Bride:

Let's all sit back, pop a Xanax and wait for my archaic laptop to finish 23 updates.


While we're waiting, here's a yarn: Once upon a yesteryear, a dude liked a broad, so he slapped a precious stone on her finger. Then he remembered he liked how things were, so why change? She got sick of it. She wants to wear a fancy dress and have a raging party. She wants to open a bunch of shit wrapped in shiny paper. She wants to stain her white gown with red lipstick and pull her dress over her head and park it on an AC unit because her undercarriage is sweating. (None of your business.)

Set a date and give him a list of planning tasks. If he doesn't like it, run. Fast. You just got a glimpse of your future.


I need a get-rich quick scheme. Have any fun ideas?

— Money Hungry

Cash This:

Let me check.

Google said you should gift Christy Fantz all your money and lie in wait. Then take off your pants, roll in manure and sit on a fire ant hill.

I work at a newspaper, man. What do you want from me?

Dole out handys for cash in the men's restroom at the GOP headquarters. It could be fairly lucrative. (Whoops.) Uncle Rico and Kip coined some cash by selling Tupperware in "Napoleon Dynamite."

Or go rob Ryan Lochte. Nobody will believe him.

Now get back to work, fool. My computer still has 22 updates left.

Read more Fantz: Stalk her: