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FANTZ: Silver foxes’ slump
Christy Fantz
FANTZ: Silver foxes’ slump

Hi Christy,
In the past, you tried to help us lift out of our “mid-life crises,” but we are still heading downhill. We still meet at Vic’s for coffee every day at 6 a.m., but have gone from five of us to two, except on Fridays when four of us seem to get up the strength to gather. As far as the mid-life issues, I got rid of the Prius, got a BMW Z3, and somehow my wife ended up with that, and I got the Honda CRV. WTF? I guess we are still looking for advice from you. How can I put this band of brothers back together? How do we get our mojo back?
—Older guyz in the hood

My Silver Foxes:

Just the tip: We don’t call it mojo anymore.What was an ancient magic used in hoodoo, to Austin Powers’ sparkly purple man-juice, to pet names, circa early-2000s — is now referred to as just plain-old sex drive. 

Digression aside, here’s my first suggestion: I think your clan needs to push up the “meet up” time to at least 9 a.m., because who in tarnation gets up that early? The Viagra is probably still having a raging early-morning pants party from the evening prior, thus rendering your buddies weary of hosing down Vic’s bathroom ceiling at holy-shit o’clock in the morning.

Idea numero dos: Have your buddies meet at the bar instead. Not only does coffee go way better with whiskey and cigarettes, but maybe a couple down the hatch will take the pants from full-attention to at-ease.

Isn’t it a mid-life crisis rule that dudes are supposed to be manly and build a wife-free shed, where the beer flows like Pepto and crumpled-up socks dot the tie-dye area rug? Which brings us to my third idea: Build Los Senior Shack. Stock it with scotch, recliners, craft beer, Tums, “My Other Ride is Your Mom” decorative wall hangings and Farmer’s Almanacs. Then you guys could meet a couple times a week for afternoon spiked tea and weed crumpets, while your wives are cruising the Hill in your Beemers, wagging their tongues at young meat.

Not only will the Senior Shack will save you money — you can pool saved coffee funds into a bingo bucket — but you can also sleep past are-you-kidding-me o’clock. Plus, you can watch SportsCenter while juggling power tools. Or whatever it is you dudes do.

Also, how is a silver fox to show off his sagging swagger in a CRV? Tell your wives to drive their own damn Subarus. You’ve got toupees to hold down while pimping that Z3 around town.

(Save a whiskey rocks for me in the Senior Shack, silver sugar tush.)

Dear Christy,

Can ebola be passed through sex? Are we all going to die?

—Concerned citizen

Hypochondriac:

Yes. We are all going to die. But most likely of cirrhosis or earwigs in our brains.

Since Ebola is spread through transmission of bodily fluids, unless you spit Cryptonite when you gush, I would assume that yes, it can be spread through sex. But I am not a professional. So ask one, you jackass.

Are you currently banging West Africa? Please choose your own adventure:

No. You’re probably fine, unless you’ve had your hands in every Ebola patients’ pants.

Yes. Then pal, you need help beyond what Fantz’s prose can offer you.

Now I’m going to go wash my hands after reading your email.

Follow Christy: Twitter.com/FantzyPants

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