"You walk in here, it's like Barbie fucked Beetlejuice," quips drag-show hostess Diva about the cabaret establishment Lips, where the disco balls outnumber the queens and performers boast such sophisticated monikers as Twat LaRue. It's Friday, and it's time for the late-night revue. Diva informs those easily offended by bawdy humor, "You've just been fucked out of a cover charge." She circles the room, endlessly singling out targets for questioning. But watching your friends squirm to avoid Diva's merciless interrogations of their sexual history and anatomy is only half the fun and accounts for only a fraction of the show's raunch factor. Bring lots of bills, and not just of the $1 variety. These ladies may call one another whore, but they're not cheap whores.