Mr. M&M waves and does a little dance. There's an unmistakable spring in his step. Not surprising given his giant, cartoon foam rubber shoes. Don't be so cynical, I tell myself. At least the guy has a paying gig. It's not how you start, it's how you finish. With a little hard work and perseverance, he might one day ascend the human-TV snack food chain. Perhaps work his way up to Milk Dud.

Navigating the Las Vegas Strip these days is like stepping through the looking-glass. Never know who you might run into: a life-size, hoofing M&M, member of The Justice League -- or a frog-voiced, bullhorn-throated black dude who looks as if he once played defensive-end for the Denver Broncos, but dresses like Gypsy Rose Lee (right down to the feather boa).

"BAM! . . ." He croaks, like a toad farting underwater, "Ever see such sexiness?" He twirls his boa, gives his Buddha-like belly a slap. "You mister, you're smilin', you got someone." He tells the male component of a tourist couple hurrying past. He turns to me, "You, you're alone. Smile an' someone'll come to ya . . ."

I smile. Stuff a stray single in his tip jar. What else can I do?

Then there's my personal favorite: Catwoman (the Michelle Pfeiffer version). For a five-spot you can have your picture taken with her. A double sawbuck buys the deluxe package: not only a pic, but the opportunity to buff 'n' shine her patent leather clad junk with a shammy and spritz of Armor All. Only thing seperating you and the good stuff; a veneer of catsuit so thin, it could only be measured by a theoretical physicist.

Like modern incarnations of the minstrels wandering the countryside of post-plague Florence in "The Decameron," a new breed of Vegas street performer has descended upon the Strip. Not just your granddad's old three-card monte hustlers, or garden-variety Elvis impersonators; but acrobats, magicians, performance artists -- human statues, scantily clad nymphs, strangers bearing exotic reptiles . . .

Look, over there . . . Michael Jackson isn't dead, he's been cloned! There's Sponge Bob sharing the pavement with a couple Transformers. Ol' Shell-head (Iron Man, to non-comic book nerds) talking shop with the Dark Knight of Gotham.

Superheroes, cartoon characters and deceased music icons all reduced to hustling tips in the wake of a post-apocalyptic job market. Welcome to Las Vegas -- ground zero for unemployment, foreclosures and bankruptcies -- and oh yeah, how'd you like a free limo ride to the strip club? Where are you when we need you Oscar Goodman? Wait, it gets even stranger . . .

Add to the mix nightclub shills; newly arrived immigrants touting a $69 2-for-1 escort special; self-promoting Hip-hop artists; timeshare salespersons; helicopter tour guides -- still not interested? How about some curbside acupuncture or a stimulating Asian foot massage? Thinking of visiting the Strip? Be warned: a veritable Mardi Gras of the disenfranchised awaits . . . and please remember to show your tits!