Your mother was a Calendar and your father smells of elderberries

June 20Monday

We’re not so sure about you, but this wasn’t such a great weekend for Calendar. For reasons we can’t accurately explain, Calendar never really was too fond of Father’s Day. It might have something to do with the fact that when Calendar was nothing more than a wee lad, we watched as our dear old dad was eaten, digested, discharged, and then eaten again by the Ravenous Poo-Eating Hyenas of the African Grasslands. It might have something to do with the fact that, prior to his demise at the hands of the hyenas, our father was a ruthless bastard who regularly beat Calendar with rat carcasses and subjected us to incalculable hours of torture watching reruns of “The George Lopez Show,” further perpetuating the stereotype that George Lopez is funny. It also might owe something to our own deep-rooted hatred of all things Hallmark, but the point is, the day dedicated to the man whose sperm bore us is somehow bittersweet. The day is bittersweet, we mean, not his sperm…although, we suppose…

Cool, we’re getting fired now for sure. Regardless, Calendar has never found much reason to celebrate on Father’s Day. We cry, we drink too much Peach Schnapps, we eat ice cream and sardines…at the same time…and generally get tossed about like an overly emotional dinghy adrift in an ocean of self-pity. It’s a deep ocean. With lots of tropical storms. And sharks. Big sharks. With sharp teeth. Don’t make fun, or we’ll kill you.Luckily for Calendar, over the years we’ve come to find that there are at least two or three other people in the world who hate Father’s Day with as much passion as we do. Two such people are the Hacienda Brothers, whose father died tragically in a freak burrito accident (carne asada, gasoline, salsa verde…don’t ask). Come check out what all the chorizo is about tonight at Ego (668 South State St.) at 8 p.m. for $7.

June 21Tuesday

Oh man…the chorizo. Somehow Calendar even makes breakfast sausage funny. Our father would be proud, if he weren’t so dead. He’d also be impressed with what a mature, appropriate Calendar we’ve become. Since he last saw us, as a kindergarten Calendar throwing pudding at our classmates, we’ve come a long way, baby-we throw feces now, thank you very much. But sometimes our snide asides and slanderous diatribes get Calendar in a bit of trouble. We’re wanted for everything from small-arms trafficking (not guns, but the actual limbs of little people…you’d be surprised how much demand there really is) to high treason (Literally: We were stoned, and we made some comment along the lines of, “If Calendar were running this country, we’ll tell you what we’d do with the presidential Bush…hey dude, pass the bong.”). No joke, Calendar is in some hot water these days. The heat is getting hot. Actually, it’s getting hot, hot-don’t believe us, come witness for yourself the Hot Hot Heat tonight at In The Venue (219 S. 600 West) at 7 p.m. for $15.

In fact, Calendar has so many warrants pending for our arrest and/or full body cavity search that we’ve undergone unimaginable amounts of plastic surgery to render ourselves unrecognizable to all federal agents.At one time or another, Calendar has looked like everyone from Val Kilmer to Kermit the Frog, sometimes with little pieces of both thrown in for good measure (because, as everyone knows, Kilmer would be sooooo much better-looking with little green frogs’ legs). Currently, Calendar resembles something of Frankenstein creature: We have the head of Robert Smith from the Cure and John Brown’s Body, tonight at Park City’s Suede (1612 Ute Blvd.) at 8 p.m. for $15.

Now, if you’ll excuse Calendar, we have a plane to catch…if our mother calls, tell her we fled the country.