Obsessive Calendar Disorder

TuesdayNov. 1

Besides asthma, syphilis, tunnel vision, crabs, cradle cap and athlete’s foot, Calendar’s (documented) afflictions include Tourette’s Syndrome and obsessive-compulsive disorder.

As you can see, we live quite a colorful life. Eep.

Some OCD people wash their hands a lot, or…or…you know, all that crap Jack Nicholson does in “As Good as it Gets.” Rent it if you don’t know what we’re talking about.

Anyway, Calendar’s OCD is a special type. No one else in the world has ever been documented to have our unique combination of habits, hang-ups and, eep, preoccupations.

In an attempt to strengthen and unify the world through caring, diversity and a “Maury”-istic display of freakish medical and behavioral disorders, we’ve decided to describe the details of our OCDeep for you.

First, every article of Calendar’s clothing is designated for a specific time of day. For example, our green plaid pants must only be worn after 7 p.m., our purple tunic between the hours of 1 a.m. and 4 a.m. and our llama skin jacket only in the morning, that is, between midnight and noon. We call it My Morning Jacket @ In the Venue (579 W. 200 South), 8 p.m.

Second, we must fold a certain number of origami eep cranes every day, the number corresponding to the total of the date’s day, month and year. Then, we must shower our litter of cranes with agape, a powerful love that is spiritual and selfless, not sexual, as that which was revealed through Jesus. Thus we call the ritual Numbers, Agape and Paper Cranes @ Kilby Court (738 S. Kilby Court), 7:30 p.m., $6 advance, $7 day of.

Third-and this was the one our panel of doctors found to be most baffling-we may only experience poetry when dressed in full cowboy attire. Since chances for this are quite rare (it’s rather expensive to rent a cowboy costume any old time we feel like reading-or enacting-a poem) we only partake in the luscious joy of poetry once a year, at Heber City’s Annual Cowboy Poetry Gathering and Buckaroo Fair @ Heber City’s Wasatch High School (64 E. 600 South, Heber City) and other Heber City locations, Nov. 1-6, $15-25.

Although this doesn’t eep-zactly classify into the compulsion category, Calendar hates French women. Not because they smell like hobos, or because their underarms resemble small, frumpy rodent nests, or because snail breath is just plain nauseating. We hate them because they’re just too skinny.

Calendar likes ’em big. Big and juicy. Uh-huh. Fatties are where it’s at. Who wants to eat a cow without some real meat on it? Only the best of us deserve a real roly-poly. And that’s why Frenchies are a poor man’s prize. Reading and signing of Mireille Guiliano’s book, French Women Don’t Get Fat @ Rowland Hall/ St. Mark’s Larimer Auditorium (843 S. Lincoln), 7 p.m.

It’s true, they don’t. Calendar’s been to Paris. We saw its skeleton-lined streets, its angular avenues, its bony boulevards. We even witnessed its raw-boned roundabouts. Sick.

Also while we were in Paris, Calendar accidentally stumbled into Jacques Chirac’s private quarters. What we saw was positively shocking, at least for the rest of the world. We’d always had our suspicions about that, eep, skinny ninny.

There, in his ornately carved golden chamber, laden with rich red velvet, mahogany and myriad candles arranged in circular patterns, was Jacques himself, poring over a Ouija board, asking it about what he should do about France’s involvement in the European Union.

Just as a swarthy guard dragged us out of the room, Calendar heard Jack-Jack shriek (in English, oddly): “You’re right, I should promise to agree to the EU’s constitution, then burn it right before I sign it! That’ll show those dirty Brits!” R.A. Salvatore discusses and signs his newest book, Promise of the Witch King @ Border’s Books & Music (132 E. Winchester, Murray), 7 p.m.

As soon as the guard let Calendar go, we took a cab to the airport, hopped aboard a home-bound plane and spent the entirety of the flight in the airplane bathroom, bathing ourselves feline-style-a task that Calendar must accomplish every time a Frenchman invades our personal-space bubble.

Eep.