Somewhere in TV Land, Madge the Manicurist is soaking some poor sap's digits in Palmolive and claiming the stuff softens your hands while you do the dishes. Vile propaganda! The odious chemical compound is slowly eating away your paws, though rotting extremities are the least of your worries. Your kids are brats. You drive a Kia minivan. Your husband . . . don't go there. It's time to shake the apron shackle, slip on some pasties, and take that still-hot bod out for a spin at the weekly Pole Dancing Amateur Night competition. The contest offers slumming mommies, de-bunned librarians, wayward nuns -- pretty much anyone who's not ugly as dirt -- the chance to make it rain 250 clams by seducing the steel for a slobbering throng of leering Larrys -- which, you note, includes your stinking, rat-bastard husband. The bun-clapping begins at 12:30 a.m.