Dear Fantz:

I swear to God, the next time I get a call from dealer services about the expired warranty on my 1998 4Runner, I am going to punch someone right in the face. About 15 years ago, I was scuba diving in Bermuda and I went into a coral (narrow) tunnel 80 feet down, and got stuck in the tunnel. Dark, my tank stuck on the top above me, my chest in the sand below me, and I couldn’t move forward or backward. I did make it out, obviously, but today, I can’t wear anything on my face or I get hypoxia, and or, panic attacks. So….I can’t wear a mask of any type. The question is, do you date older, married, immature, non-mask wearing men?

Thanks Fantz,


King Fox:

Congratulations! You, my dear Fox, have given me a panic attack. You win the Fantz secret surprise of the week. (It’s secret sauce. It tastes like dread and granny panties — the sexy kind.) Maybe it’s an asthma attack. Or allergies. Or pollution. More likely, COVID.

Whatever it is, I can’t breathe.

Please fax me your P.O. Box and an empty growler and I’ll send you a telegram with details on how to pick up your prize.

I have those warranty jerks on speed dial because they call me all the time, too. I’ll slap them around for you. I often get texts about how my UPS package is ready to be picked up, so I should click this link – > here <-. I’ve been entertaining myself by responding with, “If it’s your dad’s nutsack, I received that last week.”

As for your underwater experience, I want to cry for you, amore mio. That sounds like my worst nightmare. From sharks to dolphins to whales to manatees *shivers* I am terrified of underwater creatures. But I’m more petrified of not being able to breathe.

I have nightmares about suffocating to death and wake up gasping for air. It’s hot stakes over here in the Fantz household when we play the Panic Attack vs. Asthma Attack game. Place your bets, homies. I usually assume it’s asthma, so I suck on my rescue inhaler, soon realizing it’s a panic attack after I just pumped myself with shit that makes my heart flutter and race, my hands shake and my nerves quake.

This column is giving me anxiety.

Why would you trek to the underbelly of the Atlantic Ocean where finned monsters will snort you like a piece of Fentanyl-laced sushi off a pole-dancing mermaid’s ass?

And, I’m guessing you haven’t read any recent literature about the Bermuda Triangle?

I hung out with televangelist Robert Tilton over an eight ball in a West Colfax bathhouse last week. He spoke in tongues with me. He, sitting there with his glitter bedazzled balls drooping out of his sheen running shorts, told me that when you are caught in the Devil’s Triangle, you are transported to Area 51 where Rush Limbaugh injects visitors with COVID then crushes them up into chemtrails. The televangelist was screaming out verses from the Book of Revelations and telling me how Biggie and Tupac are running the entire operation from an underground bunker in the Denver Airport.

So I’m glad you made it out alive. Tilton’s journey would be quite stressful.

But, you still have to wear a mask because you live in Boulder and will be stoned to death with bicycles and running shoes. Plus, you need to keep us all safe.

What’s your question again? I dozed off and woke up in a pile of garbage.

This column is giving me anxiety.

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