Clifford looked around at the crowd blankly and said, "Go away. It's not even December."

"We're having a surprise party for the exalted Moonvibes Windowpane!" announced Jerome-just-Jerome gleefully as the crowd cheered and tossed tie-dyed beachballs, frisbees, and smaller groupies into the air.

"Oh," said Clifford.

Another wave of "Surprise!" went up as Jacqueline/Buffy asserted her presence into the bar. She purposefully kicked the tide of beachballs out of her path and marched up to Clifford. "Give me a Seven and Seven. Shove the Seven," she commanded.

Clifford was momentarily confused, but assumed she wanted straight alcohol and poured the drink. Another annoying cry of "Surprise!" swirled around the bar like water in a flushed toiled as Phlegm Smear stomped into The Dirty Dwarf.

Before Jerome-just-Jerome had a chance to explain, Phlegm, who had mistaken the '60's kickback crowd for an undercover SWAT team he had narrowly avoided in Redondo Beach when he was target-vomiting on the Miss Nude America contestants leapt upon the nearest five Woodstockians and succeeded in biting of three of their ears. Only when he heard their pathetic, mousy screams did he realize he had the wrong men. Gathering thier ears, the Van Gogh-eqsue trio went to Clifford to complain to the manager. Clifford nodded politely, mumbling somthing about Centurion soldiers and filled out an accident report in triplicate.

Two hours later, after the 37th cry of "Surprise!", the omnium gatherum of former hippies was a little discouraged, so Luci jumped onto the stage, made sure her G-string was slightly sharp, and screamed into the microphone. "A dyke is a terrible thing to waste! This one is for all the goddamn homophobic brownie hounds! It's called 'Lick My Plate, Bitch!'"

Your twisting serpent tongue dances on me
Down, down, down to my burning ring of fire
Save room for dessert, sweet cheeks
My toes have not yet begun to curl

Lick my plate, bitch
Lick my plate, bitch
Lick my plate, bitch
Fuck you!

Close your eyes and pretend you're a cannibal
Eat me, bite me, give me head
Show me where your Mother lives
Aren't you glad God gave us tongues?

Lick my plate, bitch
Lick my plate, bitch
Lick my plate, bitch
Fuck you!

At this point another cry of "surprise" filled the bar. Moovibes, who had only stopped in as part of his nightly ritual of admitting he had no life whatsoever, was taken unawares and was soon besieged by a barrage of tie-dyed admirers who were throwing beachballs, dropping acid, and waving their lighters in the air as they sang the Beatles' "Birthday" song.

Butch Stilletto first encountered subversive beachball diversionary tactics in the 'Nam when the USO's tribute to Frankie and Annette became a strategic military objective of the Cong. As the water began to cascade from the sprinkler system, which was triggered by the volume of high-altitude lighters, Butch calmly pulled his American-made designer-imposter Uzi from his breast pocket and, with unerring aim, methodically strafed every last tie-dyed beachball and frisbee into shreds of confetti. Feeling confident that the bar was safe for good solid American values, Butch gave his left Achilles' tendon a hearty victory slash and fell to the floor screaming, while Jerome-just-Jerome and his peers, who had been frantically dancing to what they thought was a drum solo from a popular bootleg Peter, Paul and Mary album, fell to the floor also and shared asthma medicine.

Professors Klaus and Jerund, noticing that Luci had gone braless this evening, thought in their senility that they were at their Tuesday night wet T-shirt contest at the local ABC Disco Lounge and began chanting, "Take it off!" Luci, shrugging and having nothing better to do, obliged, causing Clifford to once again fear for his liquor license. The hippies, believing that this was a prelude to a scene from The Doors, abandoned their clothing and began flopping up and down to the beat of a drummer that thankfully only middle-aged hippies could hear.

Marilyn Janice Snow had ingested so much acid at this point that she was discussing insurance premiums with George Phoenix until she passed out in his lap. While Clifford tried vainly to mop the floor, serve beer, and restore order to the bar, Moonvibe Lawrence Windowpane jumped on the jukebox and raised his hands into the air. A hush fell over the bar as all the hippies dropped to their knees and bowed thier heads.

"You fucking lunatics!" Moovibes bellowed with just a hint of fire in his eyes, "Did it ever fucking occur to anyone that I think the '60's were the most selfish years in the history of capitalism?"

"Huh?" some moron said.

"The '60's sucked!" Moonvibes screamed.

The bar gasped in unison. Phlegm began to copulate onanistically in the back row.

"Look at you assholes," Moonvibes continued. "You're the biggest, ugliest, fattest, batch of losers I've ever seen in my life... Well I... Moonvibes... Your God... has some bad fucking news for you: The only reason the '60's were great is because they followed the '50's. The only reason we even remember the '60's is because we're too embarrassed to remember the '70's! I'm an accountant, not a radical... I hate the environment, I drink beer brewed by non-union breweries, and I listen to Rush Limbaugh every goddamn chance I get!"

Several members of the congregation fainted. Phlegm ejaculated.

"I never, in my wildest nightmares, cared if John Lennon was the Walrus or not. I don't even like the Beatles! Why do you people insist on making my life a living Hell! Why don't you get up, get a job, and go home to your kids! Jesus Christ, get your head out of your asses and your asses out of the past... There's a future out there, motherfuckers... Leave me the fuck out of it!"

No one moved. Phlegm began smashing icons over their heads, non-metaphorically. Javelin MacLain tossed a few of the more petite ones out, just to keep in shape. They began to get the hint. One by one they gathered their clothes and filed out of the bar despondently, leaving Jerome-just-Jerome standing alone, staring vacantly at the spot where Moonvibes had spoken. Stymie Tatoo tugged at his shirt and offered his condolences, "Tough luck, fuckchop."

At which point a perky, little rainbow lofted across the room and everyone forgot who the hell Jerome-just-Jerome even was, and turned to watch Angela being escorted inside by P. Charles Charming. The remaining patrons of the bar smiled, waved and offered to buy them drinks. Marilyn Janice Snow, noticing the entire bar was seeing the same hallucination she was, switched to decaffinated coffee.

For reasons which would have been mysterious had Luci Damian not been nearby, the chair in which Angela was about to sit flew across the bar, causing Angela to land flat on her back in the swampy quagmire that was the barroom floor. Everyone in the bar gasped in unison. Phlegm strode over and punched Luci Damian in the face... hard. Yet again, the bar gasped in unison, only this time the gasp was laced with fear. Professors Klaus and Jerund began to hyperventilate. Everyone scrambled for cover.

Phlegm stood before Luci defianatly and sneered, "Bite my 'nads, you fucking bitch."

Luci licked some blood off of her cheek and did so... hard. The resulting wail was heard throughout the greater Orlando Metropolitan area, and sent a shiver through their collective spines not felt since 1982 when the National Shriner's convention at the International Tupperware Center in Kissimmee accidentally booked as their opening act Alan and the Rhythmic Calypsos, unaware that "Alan" was in actuality Alan Rancid, thrash metal scourge of 13 year old girls, and the Calypsos were the first successful heavy metal/reggae crossover band. The concert opened with a 3-D laser-light holograph of a schoolgirl being accosted by a gang of Satanic bikers and turned into a sex slave. Alan descended amidst a myriad of pyrotechnic effects, bit the head off a good-sized, yet well-mannered Airedale, and regurgitated on the first five rows of the audience. The Rhythmic Calypsos joined in, and the concert went downhill from there. Soon the room was filled with nerdy old men in funny hats, silly shoes and bad marriages who stormed the stage calling for either a lynching or a sizable donation to their children's hospital. They pummeled Alan Rancid and the Rhythmic Calypsos with their fezes and ran the entire band out of town, tied to the front of those tiny little cars.

Nobody at The Dirty Dwarf cared about this as Angela was being helped in a most chivalrous manner back into her chair by P. Charles Charming, who gently kissed her fingertips and removed a shred of tie-dyed ballon that was caught in her hair. Phlegm grabbed a bottle of vodka and poured in on his open wound as he sprinted to the bathroom to soak his throbbing loins in the toilet bowl, and Jerome-just-Jerome stood and stared vacantly at the spot where Moonvibes had been, unaware that Stymie Tatoo had lifted his wallet and had taken all his money to go call an escort service for a date.

P. Charles Charming took Angela to their booth, passing Buffy/Jacqueline and Morton King who were engaged in yet another heinous game of chess. Morton would have lost in 12 moves had not Buffy temporarily turned into Jacqueline long enough for Morton to convince her to sacrifice her queen and both rooks so that both sides would match.

"Checkmate, rosebutt," Morton chortled.

"Why are you chortling at me?" Jacqueline pouted, completely undercutting Morton's sense of masculine dominance. "I'm not going to play with you anymore, you.. you... poophead!"

She slowly and with great deliberation, stomped up to the bar and ordered a strawberry margarita, no salt. "What's your name?" she asked Moonvibes.

Moonvibes thought for a moment. "My friends call me Larry."

Jacqueline flashed her dimple predictably. "That's a nice name," she tittered, as Professors Klaus and Jerund nodded their approval at the excellent verb choice.

Clifford brought Jacqueline her strawberry margarita, and, just in case, set a Manhattan beside it with a pre-shoved garnish. Moonvibes took a deep breath and prepared both sides of his brain for the impending conversation.

Jacqueline told Moonvibes about the time she forgot to wear panties to the cheerleader tryouts. Moonvibes nodded his head knowingly, and told her about the period of his life when he wasn't allowed to wear underwear in protest of Spiro Agnew's continuing role as Vice President.

Buffy then told him about conducting experiments in synthesizing eripsins from household japonica plants.

Moonvibes told her about the time he was kicked out of the house for reading a copy of G. Gordon Liddy's Will.

Jacqueline told the story about how she had to stay home from prom because she couldn't find the right color eyeshadow to match the decorations in the gym.

Moonvibes told her that they didn't even have proms in the commune.

Buffy then invited him to sleep with her, but by the time they reached the door, Jacqueline was playing hard to get.

Butch Stilletto, who now owed Javelin MacLain more money than he had ever seen in his life, decided to go him double or nothing on his own turf . . . arm wrestling. It was a mistake he would not soon forget. In less time than it took to say "dumbshit," a flying ashtray that had careened off Butch's head after it had been catapulted into the air by his broken arm, knocked Jerome-just-Jerome face first into the juke box, unconscious.

Clifford could only stare mournfully at the jukebox and think blasphemous thoughts.

The ashtray was not done, however. It was sailing across the room at breakneck speed, with a slight counterclockwise spiraling motion that lended remarkable stability to what was an otherwise extremely non-aerodynamic piece of cheap glassware. And, as Angela and P. Charles Charming spoke to each other of how love would keep them together, loving each other tender, of loving touching squeezing, and how they couldn't get enough of silly love songs, the ashtray rebounded off a support post in the middle of the bar and went careening at a slightly slower, but still breakneck speed toward the unsuspecting little skull of Stymie Tatoo, who was staring at Angela and P. Charles with a little envy, a little jealousy, and his heart pumping big big love.

And while Angela and P. Charles Charming spoke of how nobody gets too much heaven no more, how their true colors were shining through, how one is the loneliest number that they ever knew, and how love would lift them up where they belonged; the ashtray buried itself into the lower medulla of Stymie Tatoo.

The blow lifted his body into the air and plopped it down, face first onto the table of the unsuspecting Klaus and Jerund, who in their senility, mistook Stymie for a ventriloquist's dummy, and, though impressed with it's lifelike appearance, were having one hell of a time making the little puppet's mouth move as they tried to reach the inside control mechanism through Stymie's formerly tight sphincter. It was an observant Morton who said that the little dead guy was kind of gross and drew attention to the situation.

An ambulance was called, to no avail. Javelin MacLain could only watch as his little buddy was wheeled out of The Dirty Dwarf with a tiny white pillowcase pulled over his body. Clifford served a round of free drinks and then reconnoitered with Luci and Angela around the bar.

"That's so sad," Angela said.

"Who gives a fuck?" replied Luci. "I want to know who gets the points for the little trouser snake."

"Angela brought him closer to God," Clifford said. "She gets the point."

Luci rolled her eyes and exposed her breasts. "This sucks," she said. "Half a man should be half a point."

"There's still several days in the fortnight," Clifford said, ignoring her method of point calculation. "And let's face it. Your odds are better this time than they ever were before."

Luci nodded. "Good point, Cliffy. Well, I've got work to do. Fuck off and die, Angela."

Their conversation was interrupted as P. Charles Charming shot out the door like a zuchinni from between the... very quickly, just in time to save a four year old girl, with big brown eyes who was sucking her thumb and clutching her teddy bear as she attempted to lead her two year old brother across the street to the candy store, from a semi that was ignoring the truck route signs and traveling at too great a speed down the otherwise peaceful city streets, by hurling himself through the air, sweeping the children into his arms and safely off the street, while somehow managing to execute a half-twist in mid-air, cushioning the children from the rough asphalt. P. Charles Charming stood up, dried their tears, brushed himself off, found their mother, and told them all to wait as he purchased an assortment of Sugar-Free-Environmentally-Appropriate confections and some dental floss. He gave the children the candy and the spiel about looking both ways before crossing the street, walked back to Angela and apologized for the interruption.

After P. Charles Charming had expressed his deepest sympathies for the loss of Angela's deceased friend and composed a pithy Haiku to be read at the funeral, they resumed their conversation speaking of knights in white satin, how he was a little bit country and she was a little bit rock-and-roll, how they'd looked at life from both sides now, and how yummy, yummy, yummy they had love in their tummies.

They could have continued, but Luci Damian, utterly and thoroughly disgusted by this line of discussion, and not one who liked to fall behind in a contest that didn't involve anal penetration, began smashing her guitar into pieces on the table where the two lovebirds sat. Phlegm Smear, loins swollen and ready to party, quickly caught the rhythm and began slam dancing with empty furniture, accusing every piece that broke of being a fag. The piece de resistance was when Phlegm executed a perfect neo-classical death-drop speaker dive into the waiting arms of Luci Damien, who promptly pulled his still-beating heart out of his chest cavity and slammed it up his asshole.

Phlegm began spinning around the room erratically, displaying all the superficial characteristics of an Altzheimer's patient with a spastic colon. He regained enough control to fall on Luci once again and bite solidly into her left breast. The resulting blow to his skull bounced him off the floor, up to the ceiling, and back down onto the chess table of Morton King, who suddently became socially conscious, choked down a Goliath Ale, and declared that the sight of Phlegm's twitching and percolating body which was spitting up the bloody residue from internal bleeding like the last legs of the Ebola virus, was really, really gross. No one dared disagree.

Hours later, after nearly all the patrons had gone home to calm their nerves/stomachs, Phlegm blinked his eyes, unaware that they had been knocked into the wrong sockets, and looked into the subime eyes of Angela who had just revived him with a kiss on his forehead, dazed and confused beyond comprehension, Phlegm stood and left the bar mumbling something about having to buy a nice suit.

"Kind of a mess," Luci remarked, staring at Clifford's crotch.

"I've seen worse," Clifford replied, absentmindedly reconstructing the jukebox.

Luci unsubtly squeezed his left buttock. "I meant you. You've had a rough day."

Clifford disengaged himself. "I know you're into the whole yin-yang thing, but it would never work between us... I'm the Messiah, you're the Devil... We'd never settle on a china pattern."

Luci backed away, imagining what it would be like boinking the bejeezus out of Clifford high atop a mountain, wind blowing through their hair, their screams of passion starting an avalanche that wiped out villages below, and that cute look on his face that he would get when she shoved an icicle in his rectum. Giggling uncontrollably, she ran for the bathroom.

Marilyn Janice Snow, who had been sharing drinks all evening with two cute little extra-terrestrials, looked into her drink to discover Reuben-esque Polynesian women performing an aquaballet around a set of Siamese twins that appeared to be Elvis and Kurt Cobain joined at the buttocks. As they fiercely debated harmony parts to Partridge Family hits, Warren the Leatherman, from that box-office disco smash Thank God It's Friday, leaped out from behind an icecube wielding a flamethrower and melted them all into a fatty phallic symbol to be discussed in college-level English classes.

And she ran screaming from the bar...