On January 1 2003, I made my first and only New Year’s resolution. I resolved that this would be the year that I lost my virginity. It wasn’t an American Pie-esque pact with friends. I didn’t tell anyone or write it down. It was just a solemn vow I whispered to myself. I was seventeen years old and my interactions with girls had been pretty limited. This was largely due to the lifestyle my high school friends and I had fallen into, which was not entirely conducive to sexual conquests. It was more conducive to the life of a eunuch.

Here at Poop Industries, we care deeply about your poopsperience© In our rally against constipation, we always give a shit. We are moved by your bowels. Please help us improve your poopsperience© by answering a few simply, easy to digest questions below.

In 140 characters or less, what does “regular” mean to you?

Dear Mr. Angelis,

First of all, we on the Newbery Committee would like to congratulate you on the success of your recent novel, “Zeus in Sneakers.” Many of us were deeply moved by your poignant portrait of life as a Greek-American teen in the late ’60s, with one member going so far as to call it “the most real and authentic portrayal of the post-immigrant experience in America that I’ve ever read.” Obviously, we believe your book to be of real merit to America’s children, and would love to give you our endorsement by presenting you with this year’s Newbery Medal. There’s just one problem with your book, Mr. Angelis, one oversight we’re hoping we can convince you to correct: it features absolutely no dead dogs that teach kids that they, too, will one day die.

I recently glanced at a review of men’s fashion in the New York Times and I thought, “That’s total bullshit. I don’t know a single man who wears a “snowflake-embroidered topcoat, loose trousers and a logo cardigan.” I’ve never seen a single one of my friends wearing “a Mylar suit with elastic cuffs, worn with rubberized canvas boots.” In order to bring into existence a fashion review that more closely squares with what middle-aged men actually wear, I’ve created this short list of the most reliable fashion choices for middle-aged men this year.

According to my mother, my birth was a horrible shriek-inducing and blood-letting ordeal that lasted all night and into the next day, adding up to twelve hours of torture for her. But you couldn’t prove it by me. Maybe a bit of Mom’s epidural got to my infantile cortex, but I have no recollection of any part of the event. It just blew right past me. If I had to compare it to anything, I’d say my birth most resembled a coma for its lack of noticeable features. Not that I’ve ever been in a coma (the closest I’ve come is breaking into a locked car with my forehead and then drinking a six-pack), but I’ve heard it’s a non-event if there is one, at least for the unconscious party. And if my mother were honest, I think she’d have to say my birth wasn’t all that memorable for her either, especially since she died last week.