Christy Fantz pens a relationship/sex column for the Colorado Daily on Tuesdays. From furries to cannabis lube to gangbangs, she’s got Boulder’s drawers covered. With words. For more hands-on coverage, please send cash.

You have died and become a ghost. What place or object do you haunt, and how do you express your otherworldly frustration?

I’ll crop-dust tiny houses with rancid farts during dangerous hail storms so I can watch arguments spark between newlywed millennials who can’t escape. I’ll drink all their booze and enjoy the show. (“I did not fart, you asshole. Stop yelling at me. Go depress your anger in the other room. Er, loft. I mean, right over there.”)

Or I’ll lurk in church shadows until ecclesiastical authority hypocrites all over canon law. I’ll hurl decades of indoctrinated Catholic guilt all over the parking lot. BYO swimsuit and snacks.

The U.S. Treasury announces it will begin issuing $7 bills. Whose face will be on it?

Mine. I was born in the seventh month of the 77th year. Simple logic. (Following in close second is George Costanza for wanting to name his firstborn son Seven.)

After a successful interview, the Gods of Small Annoyances have hired you as an entry-level deity. How will your worshipers praise your name?

By establishing Goddess Route 666. I’ll borrow Zeus’ thunderbolt to scold blinkerless drivers. I’ll gift Sunday drivers who are clogging the passing lane with a lead foot.

You have 24 hours to experience life as the opposite sex. What’s your first move?

Get hired for a position alongside an equally qualified female professional and wager high-stakes Vegas bets on how much more money I’ll be rewarded for having bits and a throat apple. Then obviously play with my ding dong.

Oh no! You’re missing a finger. How did that happen?

Not sure. I woke up face-down in Boulder Creek with a gut full o’ whiskey, a backpack full of prairie dogs, a Subaru receipt in my bra and a tattoo on my taint.

Can you direct me to the nearest dispensary?

You wake up to a string of epithets shouted in a familiar voice. Gordon Ramsay is pacing in your bedroom, and he won’t go away until you cook something worth his time. What dish can you make to appease him?

A burrito inside a burrito inside a burrito inside a burrito. If he doesn’t dig that culinary masterpiece, I always keep angel food cake soaked in nut butter under my pillow for when I need to esophageal spasm someone for nine minutes while I hit snooze.

Dangit, now I want a burrito. Can you email one? Hold, please, while I dial-up. Pshhhhh ckckrrrrrrr kaking kaking kaking chchchchch ding ding ding.

You’ve got mail.

Score, thanks.

You’ve managed to slip a subliminal message into every iPhone on the planet. How will you know when it’s working?

When I start getting handys under the table.

What I meant was, when envelopes stuffed with cash start arriving at my doorstep, Italian-wedding style.

Centuries from now, only five words remain legible on your grave. What are they?

Veni, vidi, vici, bibi, redibo.

In antiquated terms, that means I’m coming back to haunt you fuckers while shitfaced. More or less. Plug your noses.

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