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Christy Fantz
Christy Fantz

Dear Christy,

I just moved in with my boyfriend, but I have a major problem. I can’t go to the bathroom (No. 2) when he’s in the house. I often go at the gas station down the street.

—Saving face

Lady Loo:

We’ve all pooped elsewhere to save (our ass’s) face.

On occasion, we go all Cosmo Kramer and sprint around town in search of a lonely loo; we pull up our feet mid-deed to camouflage — all while softly sobbing, let me go in peace.

Pee and poop fright is a common catastrophe. A lot of people even have a hard time using public restrooms for No. 1. And since No. 2 is a such a private, pungent process that requires concentration, quiet and Candy Crush, it’s no wonder we’d prefer to waste in our own damn space.

And poor lil’ you can’t even relax on the comfort of your own porcelain.

It’s just a small hurdle to flush. You need to just get past the discomfort of letting your man know that you — like everyone ever in the whole wide world — poop.

Now look at your pretty face in the mirror and scream in an operatic voice, “The world shits, so I must acquit!” Meanwhile, I’ll get Simon Cowell on the horn and then think of a better rhyme.

Just the tip: Replace the gas station pit stop with any other toilet.

Gas stations are where the homeless go to bathe. It’s where the drunk go to barf during a cab pit stop. And where employees snort lines off the sink. It’s a place where teenagers bang and where prostitutes go to wash their junk.

Now your ass is powdered in blow, vomit and juice. And probably crabs. (Knit that into a throw pillow.)

If you are going to continue to bury your poop, just be sure to have a good exit plan on tap, otherwise when you plow through that masala delivery, the time could be nigh. Very, very nigh.

Dear Christy,


My girlfriend just bought the new Nickelback album and I think I’m going to throw myself into traffic. Just thought I’d share.


—I hate that band


Oh, Canada:


Thanks for sharing, sugar tush.

Although your email made me chuckle loudly, please don’t leave us to be a Prius pancake. Save that kind of tomfoolery for suicidal raccoons. (Aw.)

Idea: Why don’t you throw the album into traffic?

Oh. I guess we don’t buy tangible compact discs anymore. CDs, laymen. You know, those things that we listened to before iTunes?

For Christ’s sake, it’s that mirror-looking thingy in your mom’s car that you use to put your lipstick on straight.

Then I guess throw her iTunes account into traffic? (Quickly. Chuck it at that helmetless assbag on the crotch rocket.)

Alas, since Nickelback is forever etched into her fluffy internet Cloud, tell her she has to listen to it with headphones on, or you’ll binge pelvic thrust to Avril Lavigne for a year.

In the meantime, tell your lady to run — don’t walk — to Red Rocks on July 7, where Chad Kroeger will be there in all of his frosted goatee-ed glory.

Christy Fantz: 303-473-1107, or