At least not on weekends, when more than 300 faithful crowd into the Lantern Inn, a low-slung Forsyth County roadhouse with its own Lake Lanier dock across the street.

They come to hear the King of Mock 'n' Roll. They come to eat fried catfish. And in this smoky, beer-sign-lit restaurant/honky-tonk, Mike Jones fills both orders. Not only is the wide-sideburned, insult-dishing son of the proprietors the headline act, he's also the chief cook.

A couple of hours before he'll bound in front of the stage clad in black leather, Jones can be spotted darting out of the kitchen to replenish the buffet line with catfish, shrimp, chicken and hush puppies still sizzling from the fryer.

"They say the King's dead, but how can he fry catfish and still be dead?" wonders Don Beaver, a recently retired Marine officer and Lantern Inn regular.

Such mysteries have made the joint an institution among the lake's weekend mariners. And strong word of mouth - you hear about the Lantern Inn around the office coffee pot, not on the pages of "Gourmet" - has drawn landlubbers from all over the metro area and beyond. It's not unusual for upwards of 100 people to be turned away on Friday and Saturday nights.

The Lantern Inn has lit up the same Browns Bridge Road (Ga. 369) location for 30 years, but it was the addition of a $600 karaoke machine and Jones' Elvis act six years ago that began drawing the throngs.

The funny business is a family business: Harold, 68, mans the door when he isn't operating the karaoke machine or playing his son's straight man. His wife, Virginia, 66, runs the cash register and during the show drapes an endless supply of hot-pink scarves around Mike's neck, to be bestowed on his most ardent fans. Sister Debbie, 42, belts some straightforward Patsy Cline covers.

But the King clearly rules.

Jones, 35, does both "young Elvis" and "jelly-doughnut Elvis," and since most of the customers are as fried as the fish by the time he makes his strobe-lit entrance, they're ripe for his irreverent impersonation. The shtick is as long on politically incorrect quips - a sidesplitting mix of Jeff Foxworthy redneckisms and David Letterman wryness - as it is on classic covers of "Hound Dog" and "Heartbreak Hotel."

No subject is taboo, from the unsettling notion of new son-in-law Michael Jackson potentially siring the King's grandchildren to Forsyth County's past racial disharmony to the marital problems of Braves manager Bobby Cox.

His ever-smiling father can't escape, either. When Harold can't get the music to crank, and then misses a lighting cue after the King makes his hip-swiveling entrance, Mike sasses, "No wonder Elvis is dead - he had to put up with [manure] like this. . . . You're really taking care of me tonight, Colonel."

"It's a family place with good food, good entertainment and absolutely no dress code," says Calvin Bobo, a computer firm owner from Duluth, clad in polo shirt, shorts and deck shoes. "You can relax and have a good time and, realistically, if you have too much to drink, you can sleep at the dock." Elvis, of course, never sleeps.

When not flipping fish in the gargantuan fryer with tongs as long as Fred McGriff's bat or doing karate kicks for the crowd while crooning "A Hunka, Hunka Burnin' Catfish," he's working his real job: running Jones Sanitation.

That's right, on Mondays and Tuesdays, he's the garbageman for many of the very people he helped get trashed the weekend before.

The unusual combination of services makes for loyal customers.

When a competitor tried to steal one, she asked if the guy could sing like Elvis.

Why, he wondered?

"Because my garbageman can sing like Elvis, and if you can't sing like Elvis, you can't pick up my garbage."

Pondering his popularity in the inferno-like kitchen before the show, Jones yanks a frozen towel out of the freezer and drapes it around his neck with King-like flair. "I'm not serious about this at all," he says. "I think people like that."

Later, he closes the show by singing "Dixie" from behind a Confederate flag with Elvis' picture in the middle, somehow making its mouth move with the lyrics. The crowd busts a gut and, when he's done, hoots "Elvis, Elvis . . . " as he struts through the packed aisle back toward the kitchen.

"I'm ready to go home," the King quips. "I gotta get up at 6 in the morning and make Elvis biscuits."

Getting There:

9420 Browns Bridge Road (9 miles southwest of Gainesville). 5 p.m.-1 a.m.; Fridays; 7 a.m.-1 a.m. Saturdays; 7 a.m.-8 p.m. Sundays. Music begins at; 8:30 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays only. (404) 887-3080.