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St. Pat’s is coming up and your BFF from college is visiting, but you’re kind of over the whole get-smashed-in-LoDo-with-a-bunch-of-drunk-people gig. You like whiskey and all, you’ve got Irish in your mutt, but why can’t you just go pantsless to the neighborhood dive bar?

— Yourself


I have Irish in my butt? You bet my lucky granny panties I will if I eat corned beef on St. Paddy’s.

Mutt. Right.

I’d like to thank the academy for letting me answer a question from myself.

Oh, St. Pat’s. It’s like Opening Day in Denver. Halloween in Vegas. Saturday morning in your mom’s bed. A whole slew of drunk people.

I had a bit of a blunder last year’s at St. Pat’s festivities in Denver. I hit up a portable toilet to chug some purse whiskey when some overflowing pee from the men’s urinal poured down my combat boot. I sloshed around in it for hours.

I’ll wait while you barf. (Smooth jazz playing.)

I’ve always celebrated my half-Irish heritage on March 17. I enjoy ironing fabric letters on green T-shirts with obscure phrases that produce puzzled stares at my jugs. (Last year was “Irish Comma Drunk.” Stupid, I know.) I like to look like Party City pooped on me. Plus, my BFF, visiting from the ATL, is Irish-American. She’s the real deal. She flies out here so we can pour out sips of our 40s for our drunken ancestor homies.

Every year, we shenanigan together. I can’t remember a time when we missed it. I guess when I was knocked up. But these days, I’m hitched and have a small child. BFF is single and wants to rage.

Which leads us to my confession: My name is Fantz and I can’t rage anymore.

Hello, Fantz. (You all sound raspy in unison.)

(There, there, Party Fantz. Go back to black.)

What a weight off these manly shoulders. I’ve been out of denial for a couple years, as the kid is almost 4. And now I’ve cemented it in newsprint to the seven of you reading this. (Call me.)

With one foot in the grave, all I want to do is drink pin grig on ice on my couch with my afghan and slippers on while I watch my toddler tear around the house in her underwear — kind of like when Hunter S. Thompson trips nostril-first into a hill of cocaine. (Yes, I said, “on ice.”)

But I’ll be a damn fine BFF and suck it up. Denver’s parade is neat. There are lots of doggies. Plus, I can add a month’s worth of calories to my gut with stouts. If I start panicking, I can hop into my beloved Whiskey Bar and cower in the corner while she-leighlies and bro-rish chug curdling car bombs out of plastic cups.

But this year, I can’t promise I’ll make it past 8 p.m. And I’m urinating behind Dumpsters. No plastic waste portals.

If you find yourself in Denver, look for a giant half-redhead in a hazmat suit and buy me a shot of whiskey. In exchange, you can see what this year’s shirt reads. And have a purse shot.

Thanks for letting me work this out.

Read more Fantz: Stalk her:

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