We stagger into the warm, smokey, insides of Joe's Bar.

"Where to hell have you been? Blake, you were supposed to be here hours ago.", Screamed Joe. "Get your ass up on the stage! Now! You know if you wern't so good, I'd can you right now!"

Aw, shit! I think, Lets see stage, yeah, thats a way.

I stagger up to the stage and sit on this stool. Next to me is an old flat top. I usualy use this one, when my regular axe is sleeping over at Pauls Hock shop.

I pick up the axe and look at the play list taped to the top.

1. Hokey Pokey 2. She's too fat for me, Polka 3. Hokey Pokey 4. Barf burger surprise. (my own tune.) 5. Hokey Pokey 6. 99 bottles of beer on the wall 7. Hokey Pokey 8. Goodnight Irine (dirty version) 9. Hokey Pokey (repeat 1, 3, 5, 7, & 9)

Crap, How do you play 99 bottles of beer. Well it will come to me.

"Baby, can you sing?" I ask babe.

"Only the Hokey Pokey", she replied. [Hot Damn!]

"Come on up here.", I say as I look over the crowd. Looks like about 75 or so. Oh, there was every kind of scum on earth in that room. Leather boys, dock woppers, fish mongers, librils, hayseeds, leather girls (Mom?), a rougher bunch I have never seen before. Gad just like last week.

"What to you want to hear?" I ask the crowd.

Silence fell over the place. All talking stopped, even the clanking of the glasses muted. In one voice they replied, "Hokey Pokey, Hokey Pokey"

"Ok, we have a request for (BURP!) Hokey Pokey", I anounced. Babe beamed, and searched for the old Radio Shack mike. Damn wish I hadn't hocked the amp. "Use the Bho-Ran, Babe", she looked around and found the Irish Headache, and began to thump.

I start to play the requested (ugh) Hokey Pokey, when bedlam overcame the crowd. Tables were tossed from the middle of the room, a huge circle formed. 75 Hokey Pokey Drunkie, Sicky, Dumbies, began to put there body parts in and out.

"Put your right hand in, put your right hand out" ... "Put your big ars in and shake it all about", The sight was something to behold. Even Joe, stuck his skinny little butt in his very own circle behind the bar. I'm thinking [God, don't the the Bho-Ran break]