A hot time in the ol’ Calendar tonight


Nov. 4

Calendar’s had a lot of stupid jobs over the years.

We’ve been Oprah’s personal liposuction technician, a drug mule, Tucker Carlson’s bowtie tie-er-er and even a CPA.

God, why doesn’t anybody believe us?

We were an accountant.


For strip clubs…and Andrew Dice Clay.

To fit in a little better amongst the g-string-and-two-dollar-bill crowd, Calendar even changed our fluid title to a snazzy, bookish moniker. They called us Darci Cash, playing at Kilby Court (741 S. 331 West) at 7:30 p.m. for $6.

But that’s beside the point.

By way of a series of seemingly bogus connections, Calendar has managed to land a gig hunting monsters-in the distant past. Like, prehistoric times. Like that movie “A Sound of Thunder”-except we make sense and actually kill the monsters good and dead. And there are no Baboonasaurus Rexes. But if there were, we’d kill them too. And eat them. Raw.

Anyway, some bodiless ambient voice called us on a bar of Ivory soap-we reeeaalllly need to get a real phone and do fewer drugs, like, n-o-w-and ordered us to hunt down and kill Nessy the Loch Ness monster.

Conversation follows:

Bar of soap: Calendar?

Calendar: Yep. Bar of soap?

Bar of soap: Yep. Hey, what’re you doing tonight?

Calendar: Dunno, eating baked beans and watching “The Price is Golden Girls.”

Bar of soap: That’s not a real show.

Calendar: It is so. Plus, what the hell do you know, soap? You’re made of people fat.

Bar of soap: …

Calendar: (Sound of ass scratching)

Bar of soap: Well, if you get finished watching early, you feel like killing a monster?

Calendar: We already offed Streisand, soap.

Bar of soap: No, not Streisand. Real monsters. From, like, long ago and stuff.

Calendar: Kill a real monster?

Bar of soap: Yes.

Calendar: Yeah, OK. Whatever. Will you pay us in beer and Swatch watches?

Bar of soap: Um, OK. Sure thing, dude.

Calendar: We’re in!

Bar of soap: Calendar, you do know that monster slaughtering is Dead Science, playing at Monk’s House of Jazz (19 E. 200 South) at 9 p.m. for $5, right?

Calendar: Right. We’ll do it. Eulaaallllia!


Nov. 5

But, as is always the case, the bar of soap’s intentions were pure, though its achievements pure crap.

That is to say, yes, the soap did indeed fashion a time machine, but it was also made of soap and traveled nowhere in time-at least so far as we could tell.

Here’s what we know: Fell asleep drunk in the soap machine, woke up less drunk and it was Saturday.

Time travel? Dunno.

Irish Spring scented? Definitely.

As we emerged from our latherous cocoon, we noticed two distinct things:

1) We needed more beer, and it seems as though bar of soap welched on his end of the deal-we found no Swatch watches, either.

2) We had somehow managed to arrive at The Rocket Summer, playing at Lo-Fi (165 S. West Temple) at 5 p.m. for $10.

But the question begs, did we manage to kill Nessie?

Only time-and Monday’s newspaper-will tell.