Since no one gave a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut about Jerome-just-Jerome even when he was there annoying the shit out of them, they were only too happy to ignore information about him being elsewhere. Suspiciously unconcerned about Jerome-just-Jerome's lack of presence in The Dirty Dwarf was Moonvibes Lawrence Windowpane who sat at the bar looking about as peaceful and content as a Krishna in a barber shop. He just sat smiling, looking dazed and dressed uncharacteristically in Levi's, Nikes, and a "If you love something, set it free" T-shirt.

Luci, rejecting contentment of any sort among mortals as a mere romantic fiction, hopped up on the stage, made sure her G-string was slightly sharp and screamed into the microphone, "You always hurt the one you love so make it a many-splintered thing. This one's for all the losers who still believe in the missionary position! It's called 'Slap My Butt!'"

Spank me like my daddy did
Make my mudflaps scream with joy
Don't stop until I beg for more
Then I'll sit on your face and wriggle

Slap my butt
Slap my butt
Slap my butt
Fuck you!

Hurt me like you love it
A butt plug makes me feel fulfilled
Leave a handprint on my ass
I want something to remember you by

Slap my butt
Slap my butt
Slap my butt
Fuck you!

There was silence for a moment, until the sticky-sweet saccharin strains of Alicia Bodega's "I Like You Lots and Lots" dribbled across the floor.

Luci Damian maleficently stared at the jukebox and blew it up, and The Dirty Dwarf was once again back to normal.

Morton King challenged P. Charles Charming to a friendly game of chess. Charming, being too polite to refuse a sociable request, accepted. He excused himself from the booth and sat down at a table with Morton.

Morton felt the game was going well. He hated polite rich guys who always got the good looking babes, and was totally envious of the fact that the fucker could stare into Angela's eyes for hours without turning into tapioca. He was ahead two pawns and a knight, but he wanted more... much, much more.

Phlegm Smear, born-again anarchist/evangelist, felt the power of God move within him as his Holy Wafer and Lentil soup settled into his lower intestines and stomped over with every intention of converting Morton King. "Hey, fag, have you accepted Jesus Christ as your own personal savior?" Phlegm demanded.

"Sit and spin, dickweed," Morton said, not taking his eyes off the board.

Phlegm planted his combat boot in the middle of Morton's chest and shoved him up against the wall. "Repent, fascist, or lose a 'nad!"

At this point, all Morton could do was whimper as an embarrassing stain was growing larger near the fly of his pants.

Phlegm, not really sure if pissing one's pants was covered in the manual, rephrased the question. "Look, wouldn't you like to know that you're going to be received at the gates of heaven? Even if you are a fucking ugly pants-pissing fag like yourself?"

"How soon are we talking?" Morton sniffled.

"No one fathers come except through... oh, fuck it. Have a nice day." Phlegm stomped off to beat up a urinal and regain his composure.

P. Charles Charming benignly offered Morton several napkins which were promptly shoved down the front of his pants. Having scraped up what little sense of aplomb was available under the circumstances, Morton returned to the game. "En Passant," P. Charles Charming said to Morton.

"Shit on a shingle!" Morton responded.

"I'll have to ask you to watch your language in the presence of a lady, sir," Charming said with elegant simplicity.

"Check," Morton whooped, moving his King's Rook's Pawn into position for the kill.

On the other side of the bar, Phlegm exited the bathroom, brushing flecks of the destroyed urinal off his clothes. He walked up to the bar and ordered a Virgin Mary.

"Excuse me, do you have a light?" a demure voice asked softly.

Phlegm's nostrils flared slightly as he inhaled the faint odor of penicillin. "Excuse me. Do you have the Eternal Light of the World in your heart?"

V.D. stared coquettishly at Phlegm. "No, but I've got a lava lamp and a very large water bed at home."

Phlegm felt a familiar yearning stirring in his loins, but said, "Look, you brazen harlot, I've taken a vow of celibacy. Convert or piss off, nympho!"

V.D. shrugged, smiled sweetly and walked away.

"Goddamned heretic fags," Phlegm mumbled as he slammed his drink and stormed once again to the bathroom.

Moonvibes suddenly felt a totally spontaneous and impulsive urge to torch up some doobage. He frowned and wondered why.

"You look like you need a drink, Moonvibes," Clifford said, drawing a mug of Goliath Ale.

"Clifford, I just saw Hair. As a play, it sucked. But I saw the point," Moonvibes gushed.

"I didn't know it had a point," Clifford replied.

There was a protracted pause as Moovibes stared beatifically at the rafters. "I'm not sure, but I think it had something to do with free love, the insanity of war, and the importance of having a good band and naked people around when you want to make a political statement."

"That's nearly axiomatic," Clifford nodded. "What made you decide to go see the play?"

"I was rummaging through some old trunks and I found my father's collection of Jimi Hendrix albums. So I put on "Are You Experienced?" and, I'm telling you, something happened, man. I began to perceive the universe with amazing clarity. It was as if the note transcended the accoustical limitations of his guitar, and I had this urge to fuck without remorse."

"I'm glad you liked it," Clifford responded turning away towards where Luci was sitting cross-legged on the bar, making obscene origami depicting her favorite scenes from Caligula.

"Got any ketchup?" Luci asked.

"You know I can't participate in your perversions. That would be bad form."

"That's O.K., I'm having my period. I'll improvise."

On the other hand, it would be absurd for me to suppress your artistic creativity at this point," he said handing her a bottle of ketchup.

Luci smiled and imagined what it would be like doing it with Clifford on a roller coaster, honey smeared over their sweating bodies, dipping and diving their way to ecstasy, as they played "hide the big toe" in various orifices. Then she started giggling uncontrollably and had to go to the bathroom.

Moonvibes sipped his drink, humming that snappy little Hendrix version of "The Star Spangled Banner" until he noticed the stench of Phlegm's mucus-tinged breath.

"Peace, dude," Moonvibes said cheerfully.

"Do you have The Peace That Passes Understanding down in your heart?" Phlegm said emphatically.

"Where?"

"Down in your heart... fag."

Not realizing that Phlegm was referring to the lyrics of a snappy little Sunday School ditty used to brainwash little evangelical Protestants into a state of mindless subservience towards pithy capitalistic dogma designed to produce a permanent underclass of god-fearing zombies who would accept totalitarianistic directives without questioning the self-venerated hierarchy of the ministerial aristocracy, Moonvibes simply nodded and smiled.

"Look, what I mean is, are you washed in the blood of the lamb?" Phlegm probed.

"Hey, Jesus is just alright with me, man," Moonvibes said serenely.

Phlegm gave him a sepulchral growl. "Jesus love me, this I know. For the Bible tells me so."

"That's cool by me. Whatever your trip, man. I think it's great the way Americans can explore their individual spirituality. The way I see it, is, like, we all have to get to the mountaintop to work out our own personal karma. But, there's like, all these different paths, all leading to the same, like... place... and I think that's beautiful."

Phlegm jerked Moonvibes off his chair and slammed him into the wall. "Why don't you bite my 'nads, you impious fag. There is only one path. The path of the straight and narrow. Unto him all ye who are weary who have laid a piece and come heavy and he shall give you... oh, fuck it! Accept Christ before I shove this boot up your ass!"

"You seem very tense, Phlegm," Moonvibes said soothingly.

Clifford Godson tapped Phlegm on the shoulder. "I'm just taking a wild guess here, but didn't Christ teach non-violence and free choice?"

Phlegm paused and pouted. "OK, so you've got a valid point, but I'm going to convert somebody today, goddamn it!"

Luci walked up and grabbed Phlegm's crotch. "Sometimes seeing is believing," she said, opening her blouse.

"Stop tempting me, whore. I'm really confused right now," Phlegm said, sitting on the floor and covering his eyes.

Luci giggled and began faking an orgasm just to see what would happen. Clifford told her to stop because happy hour didn't start for another 37 minutes.

Phlegm sat there for a moment and began grimacing, then with one gigantic shudder, all the tension left his body. He began staring forlornly at his loins. "If I didn't touch it, is it still a sin?"

"I really don't think there's been a consensus on that one. I'll get back to you," Clifford said, pulling Luci away from Phlegm.

"Oh, Clifford," Luci said, burying her head in his shoulder, "I've waited so long for this moment."

Since no appropriately Messianic retort came quickly to mind, Clifford just sat her in a booth with Professors Klaus and Jerund, and was warmed by their cheers.

Morton King was beginning to celebrate internally. He moved a bishop smugly. "It's Alpo time for you, Lucky Charms."

P. Charles Charming furrowed his brow. Angela, patiently beaming at her true love, excused herself and went over to the bar.

"How's it going, Clifford?" she asked.

"If I hadn't been warned about this evening beforehand, it would be a bloody nightmare."

"What are a few tribulations between friends?" Angela consoled.

"Speaking of which, you've been looking rather gooey-eyed over Mr. P. Charles Charming lately..."

Angela smiled and blushed, as a rainbow arced across the room, and little children appeared out of nowhere and performed a merry little maypole dance, signing that sappy little Hooville song from The Grinch that Stole Christmas. The patrons of the bar sighed in unison.

"I like him a lot," Angela said, as the children mercifully disappeared.

"I've always found it's best to take these things slowly, Angela," Clifford hinted cryptically.

"All right, Clifford," Angela said. "I know a cryptic hint when I hear one. What is it you're not telling me?"

"You know the rules, Angela. Never enlighten. Continuously cloud. Unchecked omnipotence makes for an unsafe workplace."

Angela nodded, not buying a word of it, but letting it drop for the time being and ordered a Holy Water with a rose petal.

Morton obnoxiously placed a quarter on the chess board. "You're gonna crash and burn on that square in exactly five moves, Charm bracelet."

"I do seem to be in a bit of trouble," Charming admitted unpretentiously.

Morton began chanting, "The pretty boy dies at midnight!"

"You know, Morton," Luci Damian said. "You're a real prick. I think we ought to get to know one and other better... maybe at your place sometime."

"Forget you, raisin smuggler," Morton yeeyukked. "Go do your dildo."

"Please," Charming admonished gently, "could you try to show a little more decorum in mixed company?"

Luci bent down and whispered something in P. Charles Charming's ear. Charming looked down at the chess board and raised his eyebrows.

"Ha ha! Pussy whipped!" Morton crowed. "Let's see the twinkie move!"

Charming moved his pawn forward confidently and announced, "Correct me if I'm wrong but isn't that the second en passant on my side?"

"Unbelievable," Morton gasped. "I've just been butt-surfed by the Mortonelli Buttfork." Without further ado, Morton clutched his chest and fell face first onto the board with a final punctuation mark of ungracious flatulence, impaling his left eye on a rather precocious bishop. Death was not slow.

Angela looked at Clifford expectantly. "Sorry, the man was a dickweed until the end. Point goes to Luci."

"Yes!" Luci shrieked, mounting the dead chess master's stiffening corpse and riding him like a wild bronco until she had offended absolutely everybody in the bar and come three times as a happy bonus.

"That's sacreligious," remarked Phlegm with just a twinge of envy.

P. Charles Charming came over to Angela and said, "Oh, my darling, puddy-kins. Your friends seem to be running into a bit of bad luck lately. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Angela just smiled sweetly, causing everyone to swoon. "No, Charles... I'm fine. But you are such a considerate man. How can I thank you?"

"If it's not being too bold... A simple kiss to send me on my way, perhaps?"

The men in the bar gasped and took bets as to the temperature of the impending tapioca puddle as measured in Celsius. Angela took P. Charles Charming's face in her hands and kissed him softly on the lips once.

P. Charles Charming, smiled, kissed her hand, and walked out of the bar. A wave of shock ran through the ranks as a man had kissed Angela and survived. Angela turned to Clifford, unaware that Luci was reciting a spell she only used before at the funerals of dignitarys, "And you said I could never find a man that could handle me."

Clifford supressed an outburst of gutbusting laughter and pointed at the window, "Look."

Angela turned around and, much to her surprise, there was P. Charles Charming, jumping up and down out on the street, licking the glass of the widow and making obscene gestures as he unsheathed his penis from his neatly pressed boxers and did unspeakable things with himself, resulting in a rather festive window icing that only Luci and Phlegm could appreciate as the rest of the bar debated its tapioca equivalent in an attempt to still collect on the pool.

"Luci?" Clifford said, glaring at Luci, who innocently plucked a leaf off of the potted rose bush.

"Don't look at me," she said, pointing at Angela. "She's the one who kissed him. I'm not even wearing perfume."

"How embarrassing," Angela said, trying to erase the disgusting display from memory.

"Congratulations," Luci said, slapping Angela on the ass. "You finally drove a man over the edge. I haven't had a man wacking off in public for me since I stopped playing with Phlegm over there. Maybe next week the three of us can get together and break out the rubber sheets, huh?"

"Eew," was all Angela could say.

After witnessing such an apocolyptic display, Marilyn Janice Snow glanced cautiously into her drink, and, sure enough, there was John Goodman in a thong bathing suit, French kissing the Golden Girls' navels while they oscillated and sang "Radar Love" accompanied by a Chippendales-esque chorus of Oompa Loompas who prematurely ejaculated before the final verse.

And she ran screaming from the bar.