I haven’t had sex with my wife in 270 days, and counting! And I’m proud to share that fact! Do you want to know WHY? Because I can’t make money or further my career when I’m having sex! My main goal is to be to most successful realtor in all of the Merrittville region, and sex can’t help me do that. Instead, I get pleasure and release from reading my trade records and watching money pour in from my Buyers, who I’ve convinced need to pour the entirety of their pitiful savings into a house that I convinced them that they need!

Editor’s note: In the profile of Jeffrey Banks we ran in the July issue of It’s Clothing Time, we learned, not surprisingly, that Mr. Banks elicits a variety of responses from shoppers as he travels the country visiting chain store men’s departments spreading his message calling for a better life for socks. He’s been labeled as many things during these visits: a comedian, a charlatan, a nut, a loser desperate for attention, a forward thinker, a visionary. E-mails we received after running the profile contained similar responses.

My goat fell into a well. Me and my dad built this stone wall around the opening a couple years ago, and we check it all the time. I noticed my goat was missing when I went out to the stable to milk it. First I thought maybe Eliphaz was out riding it, but then Eliphaz came over my house to play baserock, and I asked him if he’d put the goat back in the stable, and he’s like, “What goat?” and I’m like my goat, and he’s like, “I didn’t take your goat,” and I’m like, “Well where is he, then?” and he’s like, “I don’t know.” We wandered around looking for my goat, but we couldn’t find him.

The literary world is abuzz with the discovery of the only known dramatic work of Ludwig van Beethoven, written on a single sheet of quarto paper and inserted in the composer’s aged, cracked wallet along with brothel chits and deaf-aid coupons. Only last year’s find of some charcoal nudes by Shakespeare, tucked into his high school yearbook between two pages rarely separated by literary historians, has had similar impact.

The days of facial ignorance are behind me, I’m slowly morphing into a hobgoblin of the highest order in my 23-years and I’m done shaking my gargoyle fist at the stars about it. I am a man surely soon to be damned to a life in the shadows of some long-forgotten David Cronenberg cathedral. With a missing canine tooth, the hair of a disgruntled Locks For Love terrorist, and one functioning pair of ink-stained Levi’s, I look more like the type of guy who writes erotic Neil Young fan fiction than a dude who you’d want to help give directions to the nearest ugly haven.