Sir Gawain and the Green Calendar

By , , and


Nov. 7

In the noble tradition of the lyric poem and its heroic sires, Calendar embarked-by way of an Ivory Soap Time Machine-on a storied journey to kill the Loch Ness Monster.

Why? We’re still not clear on that, but the talking bar of winking soap was quite convincing in his flawless rhetoric.

And so Calendar now finds ourself in the misty whiskey moors of Scott-land, where, you guessed it, our friend Glen-livit.


You must forgive Calendar’s poor humor and significantly dimmed wit-we partied hard and took too many ox tranquilizers in The Dead 60s,

playing at Ego’s (668 S. State Street), 9:30 p.m.

So anyway, Calendar was just a’ walkin’ in the Land of Scots, when we met an odd pair of Celts, leap-froggin’ their way a’ down that blimey, blarmy, blahooey ol’ path.

We greeted them in the local tongue.

“Avast thee lily-livered hogwogglers. What ho?”

To which they replied, “Yo, yo, yo, you da ho. Damn, son, you betta check yo’self, before I crack you to the dome. We ain’t knowin’ what you be sayin, clown. Look, we’s searchin’ fo’ that damn monster. It ate our adopted son, Cornelius. By the way, ho, we be Drums and Tuba, playing at Urban Lounge (241 S. 500 East), 9 p.m.

“Indeed? Calendar has long searched the seven seas of Neptune for a crew to swab our poop deck. Arst thee our crew, mates? Argh, by the way, we be a lookin’ for the yellow-tailed monster of the deep, in a fashion similar to yers, ladies-“

Suddenly, a great Saxon gale picked up Calendar and Drums and Tuba, and whisked us to the fabled Loch Ness, where, waiting for us, was a flop-eared, wall-eyed, limping monster.

She flatulated. We were forever deafened.

She spoke to us:

Nessie: I have waited long for you, questing knave. You and your bulbous, unforgiving posterior. And that drum. And tuba. Wait, what?

Calendar: Don’t ask us. You Nessie?

Nessie: Who’s asking…

Calendar: Um, Teddy Roosebelt?

Nessie: Roosawho?

Calendar: Roosebelt.

Nessie: Never heard of him. Nope, the name’s Scott.

Calendar: Ah. Point taken. Know where we might find the Loch Ness monster?

Nessie/Scott: Yeah, that louse generally hangs out at ye ol’ tavernicus, imbibing the dark ales with insatiable thirst. Why?

Calendar: We are supposed to kill him. Or whatever. We’re being paid in beer. And Swatch watches.

Nessie/Scott: Swatch watches suck, dude. I had one. It broke, like, day two. You’re getting screwed.

Calendar: Well, you’re getting…shut up!

Nessie/Scott: Touch, sir. And, we were just f*****’ with you-our name’s Tristeza, playing at Kilby Court (741 S. 331 West), 7:30 p.m., for $8.

Calendar: Hey, is that a fin on your back? Hey, are those gills? You’re not Tristeza-you ARE Nessie!

Beware the Harpoon of Calendar!

We are fated to impale your hide with our ‘poon.

Nessie/Scott/Tristeza: Yeah, OK. I’m going to the bar.

Suddenly, Calendar was gang-banged by a herd of goats.

Standard, run-of-the-hill goats.

Nothing special.

We can’t even get special goats to gang-bang us.

And these goats had long horns.

And they were sharp.


It’s always scariest when you don’t see it comin’ down the mountain.