The two shows currently at P.S. 122 could be twins. Both are about the ocean – glitter-covered sea people cavort upstairs in “Red Tide Blooming,” and Moby Dick gets a postmodern harpooning in Radiohole’s “Fluke.” Both shows also have a party vibe, a sort of come-as-we-are confidence, in which audience members are treated as buddies rather than consumers. And both of them benefit from the liberal ingestion of beer beforehand (Radiohole provides it free at the door). But where “Red Tide Blooming,” reviewed in this space last week, is a drag bonanza rife with easy jokes at us squares, Radiohole turns its humor on itself.

In “Fluke,” Eric Dyer, occasionally acting as our Ahab figure, runs the soundboard on a rocking boat. It’s a spectacularly bad idea, as he jolts the microphone volume up to a painful range whenever he loses his balance. But the bad idea is most of the fun: Ahab had some issues with levels, too.

Radiohole isn’t above poking a little fun at its illustrious parent, the Wooster Group. For folks who saw “Poor Theater,” a Wooster Group production that exalts difficult physical work, the goings-on at the outset of “Fluke” will make you giggle. In “Poor Theater,” even as Liz LeCompte made her subtle points about the creative process, many of us were amazed by the actors’ hardcore workout. So when entering “Fluke,” be prepared for the smell: It’s nothing worse than Equinox on a Sunday, but exercise stench catches most of us unawares in the theater.

While a homemade workout video plays in the background, Mr. Dyer, Erin Douglass, and Maggie Hoffman do their aerobics. They work up a sweat and then … nothing. It’s purposeless and meaninglessly hard. This also, frankly, makes it hilarious.

When the screen shifts to a videophone communication from Scott Halvorsen Gillette, the show’s tone immediately turns to menace and portent. Mr. Gillette, his voice crackling and stuttering with tape delay, asks us to look for the fire exits and warns us of false prophets. Throughout, his face – usually an extreme close-up of his eye or his protruding tongue – presides from the background.

Ms. Douglass and Ms. Hoffman, the latter sporting a spectacular 1940s wig, flank Mr. Dyer while he rants away. All three solemnly paint their eyelids white, placing a wobbly black dot in the center. Much of the show they act with their real eyes shut, their painted eyeballs staring unblinkingly at us. It’s a shortcut to the insane stares you might find in kathakali dancers, but without the years of rigorous training. Again, they’ve already had their workout. There’s no need to do any more work than they have to.

“Fluke” bears the unwieldy subtitle “The Solemn Mysteries of the Ancient Order of the Deep or Dick Dick Dick,” which allows the admission of just about anything water-related. A container of sea salt sits on a shelf, speakers dangle in slung nets, and a window facing onto 9th Street has transparent blue plastic stuck into the frames.

Their text, occasionally screamed over German death metal and occasionally muttered conversationally into microphones, is only loosely indebted to Melville.Images recur (they nail a $5 bill to the mast instead of a gold doubloon), but they never become too literal. It’s just an evening of the dazzlingly casual – when the curtain-call music didn’t play, Mr. Dyer popped out and pushed a button.

Like any good party, there are serious lulls. When they simplify, they fail – Ms. Hoffman and Ms. Douglass engage in a stripped-down conversation and the action slides to a halt.

But once the trio fishes out a crumpled poem and sets 50 blinking bathtub toys on the floor, we’re back to the Radiohole surreality we know and love. Think of it as the kind of get-together where some of the conversation is heady, and some of it is embarrassingly stupid – but at least all of it is fun.

Until May 7 (150 First Avenue at 9th Street, 212-352-3101).