Calendar, son of the morning


Nov. 21

Yes, you were right all along:

1) Spam is indeed made from the flesh of Indonesian children and yak fur.

2) Calendar knows this because we killed those children and said yaks.

3) We did this because, indeed, we are the Antichrist.

That said, as the son of Lucifer, we get a bad rap.

Really, we’re no different from most of you: Calendar spends our time ushering in the souls of the damned, on the phone gossiping with our father about Gandhi (dude ate Czech babies, no lie), playing stickball with Hitler, watching “Desperate Housewives” and generally failing to believe just how good Tang is.


Mmmm…potentially lascivious double entendre.

Speaking of Tang-which we always are, oh!-does anybody remember Sunny Delight?

We do.

There was that commercial in which a surly pubescent opens the fridge door and is all like, “We got milk…cola…purpa’ stuff…anti-freeze…and, uh, Sunny D.”

And then his friends are all like, “Schwah!? Sunny D!”

(Cut to obligatory outdoor montage of kids having good, clean fun…with some creepy Stepford mom…and markedly less creepy farm animals).

And then that one weird friend-you know, the kid who was always picked last in kickball and whose heterosexuality was always suspect, at best-is all like, “Anti-freeze! Pour me somma ‘dat! My dad usually only lets me slurp ‘da freeze on Saturdays….”

And the whole time Calendar is sitting at home eating Kipper Snacks, being all like, “What the hell? Purpa stuff? Doesn’t that concern anyone else? That doesn’t even make sense. Eh-serves ’em right, lousy kids, always stealing our lawn ornaments.

Hey Lydia, playing tonight at Lo-Fi Caf (165 S. West Temple) at 7 p.m., tickets at the door, didn’t we send your ass into the kitchen half an hour ago to make us that manatee sandwich? Maaannnnaatteeee! Meeee a Maaaaaan! Aaaannnd Meeee Hungeeeee!”

It is at this point-after the Sunny D commercial, but before the ass-whoopin’ Lydia invariably serves us fo’ givin’ her the sass-mouth-that we generally remember that we are in fact the progeny of Satan, and that, therefore, we can pretty much do whatever we want.

So we go to the zoo and torment the bonobo chimps-especially that irksome Damian Jr. Gong Marley, playing at Park City’s Suede (1612 Ute Blvd.), for $21 at 6:30 p.m., who never lets us sit in on his chimpanzee circle jerks.

Stupid monkeys!

Er, apes.

Stupid monkeys!

We defecate in your pen and you just rub your nuts on each other!

Can we join your club?

Say yes, or we’ll consign you to the bowels of Hades. Don’t think we won’t do it…because…um, we will…and stuff…just ask Ryan Seacrest.

Seacrest out…of talent!

And the closet! Snap!

Ah, humor is funny because it’s true. And because we have low self-esteem.

Looks like it’s suicide attempt 47,364 for Calendar.

This time, we’ll remember the lesson we learned last week: Point the gun at ourselves, not Scott Baio.

That’s right, we bang-banged Chachi.

Mmmm…yet another potentially lascivious double entendre.

Papa, warm up the Jacuzzi and rouse ou’ ho, Ladybird Johnson-we be’s a’comin’!