Fantz in Your Pants: History of my Silver Foxes

A Boulder crew of dirty old Baby Boomers — who often seek “Fantz in Your Pants” advice — have become my Silver Foxes. This septet has fallen prey to my advice column, and over the years, we’ve curated a friendship.

Simple love mail from fans (and a fat sack of pot) will keep me riding high for weeks — but I’ve been charmed as all hell for the past month because the Silver Foxes gifted me a custom-made walking cane over the holidays. (Because I’m also old as dust.)

To honor my Silver Foxes, I’ll take you back to their roots. Beware, they’re ancient, so buckle up.

It all began in the days when America was a punk-ass teenager playing air drums with caveman femurs. It was the days of the wooly mammoth when this tribe of Silver Foxes took a joyride down their mother’s birthslide and entered the world. Their mother and father bestowed upon these foxes the virtues of generosity, tenderness and unparalleled wit.

These kits were spry little assholes. They’d TK the fuck out of each other when playing fetch with glaciers. They’d swing each other around by their bushy tails, launching each other into piles of dinosaur shit.

Learning how to survive, they’d fuel fires with farts and Bic lighters. They’d drink ayahuasca and go streaking. They’d pass out in their vomit and livestream it on YouTube. They’d get makeovers and get tanked on toilet hooch at the local Prison Winery.

Then one day, a faxed telegraph read: “Come to Boulder, fools. The party in this piece is haute, hot, hawt. Love, Prairie Dawg.” (The rodent was later gassed for spelling shit wrong.)

So the Silver Foxes migrated to Boulder to raise families, become successful and have a continued brotherhood that meets for coffee at Vic’s weekly.

One day at Vic’s, the Foxes found that they craved filth, humor and NSFW content. They wanted answers to age-old questions like:

“Can a turtle bring up the rear in a furry gangbang? What is cannabis lube all about? What if my boner is still bonering 24 hours later? Who can I vent to if I porked a glory hole? Do bathhouses take credit cards? My grandma likes anal beads. Is it hot when I wear compression socks with sandals?”

Then they crossed paths with “Fantz in Your Pants,” and their lives suddenly grew a thick film of zest. They’d read Fantz and giggle like schoolgirls over pumpkin spice lattes. They sought my advice, became my pen pals, gifted me with coffee and treats — and they inducted me into their private club (sans happy ending, sigh).

I love my Silver Foxes. They may be older than the forbidden fruit and likely need pharmaceuticals to plow their wives, but they remembered my request — I wish-listed a polka-dot cane to them via column almost exactly a year ago. They made it red, my favorite color, and tacked on a shiny pink bicycle bell.

Cheers to these supporters of my foul mouth.

If only I could wake up with the rooster (see: never), I could meet the Foxes for coffee. Alas, that inhumane hour is when I’m rocking myself to sleep after a day of gulping whiskey in an afghan on my front porch.

Silver Foxes, thanks for making my decade of writing this column a damn treat. Now go change your diapers. It smells like Greeley in here.

Christy Fantz:

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