Thursday

Nov. 10

So Calendar is a big fan of professional wrestling.

Hulk Hogan, Sting, Goldberg, The Ultimate Warrior-we’ve fantasized about them all.

Especially Goldberg.

Calendar loves us a built Jewish boy.

Mmmmm.

Anyway, back in high school, Calendar harbored a secretive desire to join the illustrious and entertaining ranks of pro wrestlers. We spent lunch hours getting ringworm and impetigo from the soiled mats upstairs, threw our scrawny body recklessly from atop raised bleachers, contorted our facial expressions in dramatic fashion and even developed our own signature catchphrase and finishing move.

Here’s how it goes down: After pummeling our opponent, Calendar paces around the ring, repeating “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday…it don’t matter what day of the week, Calendar’s gonna KICK YOUR ASS and put your corpse on a Steel Train to Hell, tonight at Kilby Court (741 S. 331 West) at 7:30 p.m. for $6!”

Then, when the crowd has been roused to the necessary level of excitement, we execute our finishing move: The Leap Year.

The Leap Year consists of Calendar jumping from the top rope, pointed elbows glistening as though blades, and landing/impaling our opponent on the mat below us. There is blood, and there is joy, and it is generally an exceptional experience for everyone involved.

Sadly, Calendar’s career as a wrestler suffered a major setback when a ravenous alligator whilst playing a round of golf in the everglades ate both our legs.

Sigh.

Now, we pass the time as a wrestling promoter, instigating rivalries and setting up matches between hate-filled superstars.

This week, we have a special treat for you, readers: A triple threat match, complete with barbed wire, featuring The Chronicle’s very own wrestling personalities Jim “The Fisher King,” Glen Furious and Steve Herky-Gehrky.

Announcer: Toooooonight, we have a journalistic death match!

Crowd: (Shouts, cheers and jeers)

Announcer: In the periwinkle corner, we have the Master of Lenscrafter, The King of the Chicken Wing, The Bespectacled Braggart himself, Jim “The Fisher King!”

Crowd: (Throwing tomatoes and used condoms) Booooooooo!

Announcer: In the chartreuse corner, we have The Skinny Ninnie, The Acute Angler, The Tube-Sock Tangler, Glen FURIOUS!

Crowd: (Somehow managing to find more used condoms to throw) Booooo!

Announcer: And lastly, but not leastly, we have the Predator in Chief, the Head Honcho of Headaches, the Bearded Wonder from Down Under(wear), Steve Herky-Gehrky!

Crowd: (pausing silent) Who the hell is that? Oh well, boooooo!

Announcer: And, to add one more element of danger, tonight’s match will be officiated by a Masked Referee, for guaranteed unbiased judgment.

(Masked official enters the “cage”)

Announcer: And without further adieu, LLLLEEEETTTTS GET REEEEADDDY TO RRRRRRRRUMMMBLE!

(Fisher King starts the match with gusto, leveling Glen Furious with an adept clothesline to the neck, followed by an inappropriate crotch-stomp with his steel-toed boots).

Masked Official: Hey, Fisher! We know all about your past. Keep it clean and keep your limbs away from other wrestlers groin areas!

(Glen Furious, recovering from the low blow, regains his footing and looks at Fisher, who is promenading about the ring like a wilted pansy.)

Glen Furious: Now you’ve done it, Fisher! You think you’re such hot stuff, but let me tell you, your s*** does, in fact, stink! Prepare to be annihilated. I’M FURRRIOUS!

Fisher: (running from Glen Furious like a schoolyard bitch) Eek!

Glen Furious: No use running, Fisher! I’ll show you who the real king is-prepare to meet your maker at the hands of my special finishing move, The Detroit Cobras, tonight at The Velvet Room (200 S. 149 West) at 9 p.m. for $12.

(The Fury starts spinning around in place, hissing like a snake and gesturing wildly with his slithering arms)

Fisher: …Um?

Glen Furious: Just wait, I’m charming the snakes, fool! Pain this great takes time!

(Glen Furious falls over from all the spinning, leaving his groin open and vulnerable to the doings of Fisher)

Fisher: I’ve got your snake, now! Stompy-stompy!

Masked Official: Don’t even think about it, Fisher King! The stomp stops here!

(Herky-Gehrky, as of yet a non-factor in the match, makes his presence known with a loud and seemingly pre-pubescent yelp)

The Gehrk: Yeeeow!

(Herky-Gehrky charges Fisher, whose boot is still poised dangerously above The Furious Family Jewels, and makes preparations to execute his own finishing move, The Holden Caulfield, playing at Lo-Fi Caf (165 S. West Temple) at 7 p.m. for $7).

(Gehrky squats on the floor, looking constipated, neck-beard a’ bristlin’)

Gehrky: AARRRRRGGGHHH!

To be continued…