Dear Christy,

My bros always want to go clubbing to hit on the sluts. I hate clubs. I hate dance music. I just want to sit at a sports bar and find a cool girl who will go to a Rockies game with me. But they never listen to my bar suggestions. They want the drunk girls with half a brain. How can I convince them the hot girls are at regular bars and that they can at least carry a conversation?

-- Won't find me in da club


Good boy:

You're stuck between The Rock and a loud place.

(Bros. Clubs. Crickets?)

In the flick of my Bic, I will have a half-dozen whiskey shooting, jersey-wearing sports-enthusiast pretty ladies lined up all lovely.

christy fantz
Christy Fantz

But, as LoDo reveals nightly, some ladies fancy waiting 23 minutes for a $12 Fireball shot. (Don't cinnamon my whiskey.) Some enjoy rubbing against sweaty Schwarzeneggers. Some revel in the catcalls on their journey from the loo to the VIP room. (She was pooping!) And some like blowing lines off the back of toilet seats.

Then there's rusty ol' us.

We like washing SportCenter down with Kentucky Deluxe shots. We like having intelligent conversations with fellow barflies. We like chatting up the bartender. We like smoking a cigarette without plowing through a pack of rabid princesses.

We're all different. Not all enjoy the same social scene.


When my friends would make me wait in line for 37 minutes at (insert bar that has a "y" replacing the "i" in its name), I would to go play barefoot alley soccer with broken beer bottles so my Chucks would fill up with blood.

Raincheck, ladies. LYLAS!

You can still be pals with your bros, but you can also find a different crew who enjoys playing darts -- not shooting their dart between a set of double-Ds.

Then, once a month you can be a pal and indulge your buddies with a club visit.

Well shit.

Your Toms just filled up with blood. Better go see Dr. Deluxe. He works at the dive bar around the corner.

Raincheck, bros. LYLAB!


Dear Christy,

How do I find my own prince? The royal lifestyle seems sweet, despite the whole thing about hoping that the docs who are looking at your hoo-haa when you have the royal heir don't talk to the press about it.

-- Princess Diaries for real


Pretty girl:

I'll tell you how you find your prince.

Ctrl+C and Ctrl+V this bitch to Craigslist:

Thy suitors out yonder, I beseech of thee a modern prince. Qualities my prince shall possess:

Stand there and look pretty. Fly me to lavish lands. Put an heir up my womb. All hoo-haa doctors are pending my approval. Make me a socialite. You are a goodwill ambassador. And you must be an unnecessary drain on public money. Also, if you could look like Prince Eric from the "Little Mermaid" that would be super. And hopefully your name is Aladdin.

Or maybe just go kiss a frog. Make sure its one of those psychoactive ones, though. Might as well get high on your journey of unfeasible dreams.