Fantz
Fantz

Satisfaction for your curiosity and then some

If you have a burning question or a burning sensation, email Christy at cfantz@prairiemountainmedia.com.

Christy:

It's football season, so I won't see my man again for months. He's in seven fantasy leagues, and from NFL games to college football games, he watches it all while drinking. How can I get a snap from my sexy QB this fall? I'm probably going to have to wait for sex until after the Super Bowl.

— Sidelined Sex

Walls of Balls:

Six months from now, you'll need to sit on a blowtorch to burn away all the crotchwebs. Better idea: Kill two birds with one cartoon character and (1) hose it out with Mr. Clean, then (2) rub one out to the shiny, burly, balding ball of muscles.

Your dude just has his mind on balls. This could make for good sex, though. Hop on while he's eyefucking tight ends and maybe he'll last more than a minute.

Will he really withhold sex from you until football season is over? If so, then beat it. Figuratively. Get the hell out of there. Although football is a good time and America's pastime, a girl needs to get laid.

Wait, that's baseball.


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You can try to have fun with it and get into the games with him. Dress up as Tim Tebow or Larry Bird. (The latter's a basketball player, and please don't dress like him.) Put bean dip all over your bikini line and dangle wings from pasties. Fill a kiddie pool with guacamole and swim around in it naked during Monday Night Football. Dangle hot dogs from your buttcheeks and bounce that booty all over the house. Have him dip his corndog into your strategically placed ketchup. You guys are gross.

You two need to put those genitals in a room together and smash them. Or act like a group of girlfriends in a book club and synch up your cycles. Figure out which games aren't a top priority for him and turn those nights into dates. Tell him he must make time for you or you'll make time for his best friends.

Well shit. He's passed out with one hand down his pants and one gripping his Bacardi Breeze. Guess it's time to go Mr. Clean off that dried-up bean dip. Then Mr. Clean on. And off. And on. And off. On. Off. On. Off. Squirt.

Go repent for your Proctor & Gamble sins.

Dear Christy,

I went to a potluck that specifically asked for no peanuts because of allergies. I made a peanut sauce for my spring rolls and got kicked out of the party. They could have at least threw it out and let me stay.

— Oh Nuts

WTF:

Sigh. You didn't even hide your need to bring peanuts in an unassuming dish; you brought fucking peanut sauce. I can't tell if you're a dickhead or a dolt.

They should have made you wet hump the peanut sauce, then hose off in the sex-offender's yard next door while he watches you and fingers his belly button.

If I had a party and specified "no ragweed" and you showed up with fresh ragweed, I'd suck on my asthma inhaler, grab a vase and beat you with it. You you can't follow directions. Get the hell out of here.

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