Old dudes have brought it to Fantz in Your Pants’ attention that my columns have been lacking the filth they crave. From Silver Foxes, to your dad, really weird voicemails, jail mail and the boss, I’m being ridden hard and dry.
Since this rash isn’t healing, let’s get to the root of the ride.
Fantz in Your Pants fans want to guffaw brazenly in a council meetings discussing prairie dogs’ rights to non-GMO grass. They want to listen to some random broad blather about mascots in gangbangs. They want me to bottle feed them word porn via newsprint.
I get it. I’m a break in monotony. A bulge in the pants. A filthy filter on a fan. Viagra Falls is what it says in the men’s room. I’m a breath of fresh fucks. (The Walgreens incontinence aisle goes wild.)
You want dirt? Buckle up, old farts. Crush up some Lipitor, snort it off your wife’s ass and put in that mouth guard. Drop your Depends and grab your toes, the shit is about to go destroy the fan. Let’s get crude …
But wait. I have been dirty, you dingleberry-laced taint holes. It was but a month ago when I described your jerk off routine with a scoop of hair pomade. What do you want from me? A hands-on guide to prostate-milking? An online tutorial on how to jam balls into snug orifices? A virtual reality tour under the hood?
You want to talk about sex. (Shocker. Literally. Get your pinkie out of my asshole.) Well, get your left hand out of your merkin curls and your right hand out of thumbing through disturbing porn and send me some questions. (And holy water.) A lack of questions to Fantz in Your Pants has had me penning more poignant — but still tainted — columns about everyday life.
If it’s personal experiences you want, well, I have a child. My single ship has sailed, sugardicks. Detailing former sexcapades against a Dumpster in the back alley of bar in Denver is in “poor taste,” according to my Life Coach Kentucky Deluxe.
So while questions to firstname.lastname@example.org start trickling in like a forced pee before a road trip or Day 1 of menstruation, I’ll leave you with some pointers on how to get in touch with your sexuality, since this is my life now.
1. Pour a glass of Zima and light a candle in the bathroom.
2. Take off your pants and observe your undercarriage over a mirror. (I’ll assume this ends with a heavy lathering of Cetaphil, because no one wants to fondle a flaky sack, dude.)
3. Talk to your lover about exploring fetishes.
4. Watch a tutorial on how to execute No. 3.
5. Clean yourself up after that inadvertent blowout.
6. Execute No. 3.
7. Don’t stop until all parties are pleased. ALL PARTIES, DJ Khaled.
I’ll try to get dirty, boys, but ultimately, I will determine the Fantz in Your Pants path. And I will go down in a barrage of lube-filled paintballs and rise out like a slimy newborn baby. I’ll climb — slipping numerous times, obviously — pull myself to the top, mount myself and …
Choose your own adventure, perverts.