Orphans make trashy tale trashier - and fun

But Ryan Landry and the Gold Dust Orphans have found a way to take the legendary pulp-mistress even further over the top with “Valet of the Dolls,’’ an uproarious spoof of “Valley of the Dolls,’’ her 1966 novel (which became a movie in 1968) about good girls gone bad and bad girls gone worse.

“Valet’’ finds a lot of humor within an inherently risible story (we’re not talking “Absalom, Absalom!’’ here, people) by taking a reductio ad absurdum approach that borrows the basic plot, characters, and themes of “Valley,’’ then simply pushes them to their illogical extremes.

“Valet’’ follows three young, um, ladies on their troubled, pill-popping journeys through the seamy underbelly - among other body parts - of show business. Much of “Valet’’ is fall-off-your-chair funny (though bluenoses should probably stay home). Double- and maybe even triple-entendres abound.

What makes it so enjoyable is not just that Landry & Co. will do anything for a laugh - though they will - but that through their campy excess shines a palpable love of performance.

Professionalism, too. They manage to keep up with the helter-skelter pace set by director James P. Byrne, who creates a constant flow of action that makes the most of limited space. One minute the stage might be alive with the go-go gyrations of “The Jacqueline Susann Dancers’’; the next might bring a flurry of sight gags (including an allusion to “The Exorcist’’) or the arrival of foul-mouthed puppets (my favorite was the Paul Lynde sound-alike).

Scott Martino’s lavish costumes, a riot of sequins and feathers, virtually put on a performance all their own. On one occasion, an outfit literally stopped the show, as the appearance of a character in a stunning gold gown and matching pillbox hat brought audience members to their feet.

At the center of “Valet’’ is Anne Wells (played by Afrodite). Anne has many dreams, and, as the evening progresses, many hairstyles. In search of a fulfilling career and, of course, true love, she has somehow made it all the way from Mattapan to Boylston Street (about, oh, five miles).

Her quest is complicated by an unfortunate case of Tourette syndrome that causes her to blurt out the naughtiest words imaginable at the least opportune moments imaginable. Yet Anne does not suit the action to the word, thank you very much. She is determined to keep her virtue, for a while anyway, despite the depredations of the caddish Lion Burke (Chris Loftus).

Will Anne ever be able to tame Lion, and will she find happiness by making it onto, if not a marquee, at least a billboard for a chain of parking garages?

Then there is Neely O’Hara (played by Liza Lott), a singer-dancer who is so determined to be a star that she throws everything, including, it seems, her tonsils, into every tune she sings. Even though an aging diva named Helen Lawson (Landry himself, in red wig and redder lipstick) is determined to stand in Neely’s way, this kid can’t miss, not when armed with torch songs that have lyrics like “I’m covered in love bugs,’’ or, in an ode to her lover’s prowess, “My baby ain’t been circumcised.’’

But as she claws her way to the top, can Neely avoid the pills, the booze, and all the other temptations of stardom? Do you even have to ask?

And then there is blond and busty yet tragic Jennifer North, played by Penny Champayne. Jennifer marries the swaggering lounge singer Tony Polar (Gene Dante, who alternates in the role with Gary Croteau), but he doesn’t swagger for long: Soon, he falls into a persistent vegetative state. That leaves Jennifer to the tender mercies of his sinister sister, Miriam, who, as played by the hilarious Olive Another, makes Cruella de Ville look like Mary Poppins.

What is left for Jennifer but to make porno movies for the cruelly supercilious French director Pierre LePew (Landry again)? What indeed?

It all adds up to an evening of sublimely delirious nonsense. At a climactic point during the general mayhem, all of which takes place in the nightclub Machine, a character cries: “This stripper pole makes no sense!’’ Neither did anything else in “Valet of the Dolls,’’ but I, for one, am not complaining.

Don Aucoin can be reached at aucoin@globe.com.