The Silver Foxes never know, from day to day, how much time we have left. While we think and hope that there will be many days that we pursue our simple pleasures, every day we face our own mortality in so many ways. It has been, and continues to be, one of our greatest hopes that you will finally grace us with your presence at breakfast sometime. So, here, in a desperate plea, we ask that you join us on a Friday, at (name changed to protect Silver Foxes’ identity) at 6 a.m., for what could be, God forbid, the last supper, so to speak. Breakfast with Fantz In Your Pants: A true bucket list item.
I’ve never been called “a true bucket list item.” I feel like I can safely perish with a boner right now. That’s the damn sweetest thing. After reading this, the apples of my cheeks turned the color of a nutsack after it gets knocked too hard.
Over the years, I think my heart has enlarged a click from the all-too-kind words from you Silver Foxes. (Or it could just be coronary artery disease. Potato potahto.) Let’s retrace our history.
December 2012. Fantz’s hair is black. The Silver Foxes strike the first time and invite Fantz to coffee at Vic’s at 7 a.m. Fantz doesn’t show.
March 2017. Fantz’s black hair was bleeding out some of the smashed red cherry color. The Foxes surprised Fantz with a visit to the newsroom and a personalized cake.
December 2017. Fantz’s red/black tips were topped with blonde roots. The Foxes gifted Fantz with a bedazzled and custom-made cane.
October 2018. Fantz’s hair is blonde. The Foxes invite Fantz to breakfast and she doesn’t show.
There were various coffee/breakfast invites between, but journalists are going to have my head because I’m speaking of myself in the third person, so, moving right along.
We’ve been through so much together — a prism of hair color, for starters. (I also have rainbow pubes, but those are for my gyno’s eyes. My ancestors were Lucky Charms. I’m not sure how they reproduced. They’re from the future.)
You boys aren’t just frequent readers or seekers of Fantz in Your Pants advice. You’re not merely fans of a local column that taints the collective conservative bloodstream with the venom of Beelzebub. (I said taint.) You’ve become my clan of Silver Foxes. My Boulder boys. When I think of you, I have happy visions of Viagra and Warfarin pills with salt-and-pepper manes flapping in the Colorado breeze. Your baby aspirin-bedazzled chest hairs sitting on a silky nest above your bosoms. I see you prancing around on a grassy mountainside, laughing like a bunch of giddy girlfriends. Drinking half-caf lattes and talking about who got laid last year.
Then I snap out of my cannabis-induced daydream and remember that I don’t have time to daydream.
I promise I’ll meet you for coffee or breakfast. Six years later, and I have yet to show. (What an asshole.) I don’t even have a bucket list because I don’t have time to think about one.
Alas, bucket list begins, and the first item is having breakfast with you boys. (But for the love of gods, can we make it 9 a.m.? What am I, Betty Fucking White? I don’t change out of my diaper until at least 10 a.m.)
See you soon, Foxes. XO.