Homies, I won an award for this column. (A focus group goes wild.)
The geriatric cat is out of the Depends bag: Fantz in Your Pants is not a page of outhouse newsprint with which you should wipe your ass. And if you do, well, I’m inside giving your dad a golden shower, so stay warm.
This is only the third time I’ve submitted my column to compete, as I’ve been discouraged in the past to do so due to my “racy” content. (Almost doo-doo. Almost.) It was often the general consensus that the “old dudes” who judge the competition may sustain heart attacks after perusing my extreme detail of taints, cracks, shafts and such. (Sign up at poopslide.gov to get yours detailed. Use code “anal*glow” for a free cannabis lube upgrade.)
But most of my rabid fans are “old dudes.” (Heeeey boys. Call me.) They pop a baby aspirin, grab a sock, a scoop of hair pomade, settle pantsless on the basement couch and dive into the beloved Page 3.
“Honey, what are you doing down there?”
“I’m, ahem, I’m shaving. I mean reading.”
“Well don’t muck up Colorado Daily’s Page 3 because I want to see the Tweet of the Day.”
“Why would I muck up Page 3?”
“I know you like that raunchy Fantz girl who writes about offensive stuff. And like I can’t hear those zoo noises you’re making.”
“SHUT THE DOOR!”
Easy boys, I kiss my mother with that page.
(Now bend over and I’ll repeatedly whack you on the ass with a rolled-up Colorado Daily. Sixty-eight, 69, 70 … how old are you again? My arm hurts.)
Fantz in Your Pants snagged No. 2 in humorous column writing behind John Bear’s Bear with Me. (That fucker always takes gold.) Congrats to the Boulder Bearkowski. He is damn mighty with the pen. But don’t think I won’t K him the fuck O after he leaves work tonight. (Translation: Scream like a swine when he points at a raccoon climbing up the tree towering over my car.)
However, if I do happen to get a demon hare up my arse and we are going to fight at the flagpole, I need to set some ground rules.
• No flipping my legs over my head because these leggings have a hole in the crotch.
• No removal of shoes because these flats smell like Casa Bonita’s bowels.
• No hair-pulling because my hair is my favorite.
• No punching because these old bones hurt.
• No kicking because it’s hard to get off the fucking ground these days.
• No emotional abuse because I don’t have waterproof mascara on.
• No yelling because it’s quiet time.
Basically, we can go outside and bash corporate overlords while I blow smoke in your face. Deal?
So Boulder, you’re totally thinking what I’m thinking: How has Fantz never won a humorous column award before? How has Lorne Michaels not snapped her up already? How come Fantz hasn’t bought a new pair of leggings? They’re only, like, $4?
I know. This Page 3 here is wood-pulp gold. One day, you’ll be able to trade it for dystopian brothel tokens. So you’re welcome, Boulder and Colorado, for this dubious wit and ribald content.
I’ll be on the shitter if you need me.