WednesdayJune 29Calendar always heeds Mommy’s warnings,because Mommy is always right.”Sticking your nose into an outlet onlyyields agony and sebaceous blisters.”God, was she right. “Don’t talk tostrangers,” she admonished us oncountless occasions. “No matter what,Calendar. Strangers can never helpyou-ever. They eat their own, do youunderstand me? They’ll drag y’all outinto the woods and shish kebob you.Hey, is anyone listening to me?”Calendar was. We got lost in the woodsa few days ago. Even though we werestarving and contemplating eatingsquirrel poo, we ignored searchers’cries. Calendar knew what they wereafter, so we kept our mouths shut tightas a vise. They just kept calling for us.Stupid strangers. Two days passed. Ouracute hunger and thirst invoked ourspirit guide, Papa Ronnie, who liveson the Planet of the Drums,playing at The Venue (219 S.600 West) at 7 p.m. for $20.At Papa Ronnie’s behest, we teleportedto his alpine villa. There, we frolicked-Calendar loves to frolic-throughhis vast poppy meadows and scaled thecraggy cliffs of Golgoroth. It was neat,and Papa Ronnie’s bathroom smells likepumpkin pie. That evening, Papa Ronnieapproached us about our lodging plans.Calendar yawned in his face, elicitinga grimace and a spew of invectives.”Your breath smells like a garbage can,do you know that?” he demanded.We apologized. He suggested we see adoctor and told us we should probablysleep outside. He laid out a bed of dandelionson the porch. We fetched a pillowfrom his bedroom, and he knockedit out of our hands. He then struck ourmuzzle and barked a staccato “no!”We guess we were kind of out of line.Before he tucked us in, he requested afavor. “As recompense for my providinga portion of my bounty,” Papa Ronniebegan hesitantly, “would you pleasecritique a monologue I’ve been workingon? It’s from the operetta ‘Piratesof Penzance,'” playing atSandy Amphitheatre (1300E. 9400 South), at 8 p.m.,now through July 2. Ticketsare $5-$12. We listened, he warbled,we giggled a bit. For some reasonhe didn’t offer us any sustenance. Hecovered us with a plastic tarp. Soon, asticky sleep swathed our face as we layin our sweltering weed bed.ThursdayJune 30At 6 a.m., Papa Ronnie awakenedCalendar and offered us a Zima, courtesyof Original College Night$1 Drafts, at Cabana (400S. 31 East). Our thirst slaked, wesnapped back to Earth on the wingsof a dragonfl y. “Calendar…Calendar?”We can’t believe they haven’t found usyet. God, we only wandered for, like,10 minutes. If only somebody knew ourpassword-then we would know thathe or she isn’t a stranger. Mommy isprobably bursting with pride. Calendarfollows protocol like a pro.Oh, man, it’s Thursday. We were supposedto hit “The Slackers,”playing at The Velvet Room(155 W. 200 South), 7:30for $12. Too bad. Hey, why are oureyeballs numb?…One week passes…Calendar starved to death yesterday.We were lucky enough to be osmosedinto a sequoia, which is strange. Theydon’t grow around here. Anyway, wecan see our emaciated corpse, and itis clear to us now that if a person islost, he or she ought to cooperate withsearch teams-maybe shout every oncein a while. Only an idiot would staymute. But Calendar was premature.Give us a break. Until further notice,we will impart our wisdom from MotherSequoia’s bough. Contact C.D. Whipplefor funeral information.