christy fantz
Christy Fantz

My dear, sweet Jeanine Fritz got sick, so pop a Unisom, quit your bitching and I'll take over for her "I'm Not There" column.

Now stop crying. It's just for today. Plus your nose is whistling. It's weird.

I'm going to take this opportunity to tell one ripping-fine yarn.

Let's act this out. You be Fred Savage as the grandson from "The Princess Bride" and I'll be the Dread Pirate Roberts.

Fine, I'll be Peter Falk as the grandfather and lull you to interest while you burrito yourself into a fuzzy blanket. Head pat, head pat.

I want to talk sports because I never get to write about sports. (Holy shit, did you see that Texas A&M-Alabama game?)

No. I want to talk about nightmares! This brain at rest is a dangerous toy that oozes shrieks, tears, sweat and panic. (How lucky is my man?)

Actually, let's talk doggies. I love doggies! I want to be in a room of thousands of puppies and I want to roll around on the floor and spoon them all.

I'm allergic to kitties, so we aren't talking kitties.

Maybe burritos? My Irish-German roots sometimes think they're Mexican and spill salsa all over my wienerschnitzel.

I'm clearly not focused. I have 30 minutes to whip this bitch up, so let's talk grammar.

Wake up! This is good.


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My poppa was a sports writer for a daily in southern Cal and my godfather (my poppa's best pal) was an editor for a Los Angeles-area paper. So, when dad returned every paper penned by yours truly -- redlined to all hell -- apparently sparked a love for editing.

I yearn to tag the world with a red pen. For years, I've wanted to pen a blog on how the world needs an editor. The problem is, after I write all day to entertain you fine fellas and fellettes, my fingers only work for chain smoking and pint holding.

I know what you're thinking. "Dearest Christy, we would have no time for this beautiful disaster. Although it sounds delicious, we're busy tweeting the Buffs butchering of American football."

(BAM. I still love you, Buffs. For real, yo. Kisses and tight end grabs.)

So, since you may not fancy my fine blog brainchild, I beg of you: learn apostrophes.

You know -- those things that look like polka dots crying? Oh. You only speak emoticons.

Well anyway, apostrophes should only be used to mark omissions, contractions and possession. (For the most part. We'll get into "its" another time.)

DVD's = wrong!

Unless said DVD is going to the Broncos game, then we can talk: The DVD's going to get shitfaced at (blah blah blah field at) Mile High. As in: the DVD is going to get shitfaced.

So, when you set that box of Spice Girl CDs outside, do not put "Free CD's."

In conclusion, neighborhood liquor store, if I didn't love those two cats who run the dive liquor closet blocks from my abode, I'd redline the shit out of their signs:

"Dog's must be on leash's. Thank's."

I should be a school teacher.

Good talk? Oh hush. Jeanine's back next week. (As in Jeanine is back.)