Little did we know, friends, that when we dropped goofy little Footnote #2 in our most recent missive (see: D.M.T.: Things That Should Work Better in an Age of Unprecedented Technological Mastery and Yet, Maddeningly, Do Not Edition), we were setting off a series of events that would shake up the world of what still passes for entertainment these days. We feel compelled to review the bidding and offer you—our ever-salivating-for-more public—a response commensurate to our position as cultural provocateurs à la mode. Without further ado—
Here’s the poop: ’twas we who dragged Dustin Diamond out of the dustbin of boobtubal history and back into your consciousness lo these many years after Saved By the Bell took its bows. It could have been anyone we name checked, friends—our point was simply that the power of U.S. culture to elevate a no-talent to public fame is awesome indeed. We might have mentioned Alan Thicke, for instance. 1 But we didn’t. It was “Screech” we brought to mind.
Our prescience makes our teeth hurt. (And yours.)
Because then, like a bolt from above, it was suddenly DUSTIN: everywhere! Particularly, it was Dustin retreading what has become the hoariest of show-biz screen-time grabs: the unfortunately leaked “amateur” sex video that hits the internet over the faint and Wonka-esque “don’t”s and “stop”s of the hapless souls involved, to be downloaded monstrously by all and sundry, to glisten like a Dick Harde acrylic dildo for two brief days before—blast!—being bounced from the headlines by actual news about actual citizens and actual elected leaders thereof engaged in actual nonconsensual, but no less unsavory, malfeasance.2
Many of you, we suspect, first learned of D.D.’s post-D.M.T.-mention sextivities while watching the season première of Saturday Night Live last week.3 Naturally, we already have our D.M.T. attorneys-on-retainer contacting Lorne Michaels about our payment for putting D.D. schtick back in the public eye.4 We must, in fairness, credit loyal D.M.T. reader Simon Savelyev with first hepping us to the D.D. sex tape after he eyed it in the N.Y. Daily News. Well done, loyal Simon! For this deed, you will be awarded one deluxe tour of D.M.T. headquarters, ten minutes with Sally, our “manicurist,” and a mini-pack of Kleenex.5
So now the whole world knows what, previously, only our tingling brain stems had suspected: That Screech is a uniquely American sleezotainment apparition whose natural path will be toward disquietude. Not even we could have told you three weeks ago that his vehicle-of-choice would be the “amateur sex tape” but, now that the truth is out, our minds boggle. And we rush to our keyboards, hoping to get some mileage out of it before it goes down for the third time, which we predict will be on or about October 10, 2006. And so we write. Write, motherfucker, write! Untopicality’s wingèd chariot draws near!
Let’s make one thing clear, before this goes any further: Dustin Diamond has now done it. Let it never be done again. The leaked sex tape is now officially over, untouchable by anyone for any reason. This means you, Courtney Love. Even if it’s Pam Anderson’s idea. Even if she is in it. Well, maybe if she is in it.
There is, of course, exactly one flourish that makes the Diamond tape the Trashterpiece it is: the execution therein by Señor Diamond of the “Dirty Sanchez,” which detail sent so many Bryn Mawr sophomores to Wikipedia last week that the wind whistled lonely through the karaoke bars of Philadelphia for three days.
The Dirty Sanchez
We know that you have looked it up by now; you did that after renting the DVD of The Aristocrats. So we won’t hold the whole class up, except to note the following augmentatory WikiFacts:
- Dirty Sanchez was a British TV show
- “Dirty Sanchez” is the nickname of a Swedish professional wrestler
- “Dirty Sanchez” is the nickname of a relief pitcher for the World Series-bound New York Mets
- “Dirty Sanchez” is one of the “Bang Brothers” porn supergroup6
- “Dirty Sanchez” is a variant of seven-card-stud poker in which the mustachioed face cards are of special significance.
We say unto you: Dirty.
And we say unto you: Sanchez.
And are thereby inspired to end this very special D.D. D.M.T. with a very special hummingbird pirouette amid the low fruit that is our first domain, namely: the creation of up-to-the-second boutique sex acts for you our loyal readers to attempt, or to imagine attempting while you strangle your chicken in the shower.7 To wit:
“The Carbo-Compulsive Izzy”
Just before climax, you rip off your shirt to expose your bra and begin baking muffins.
“The Bewildering Redneck”
Just before climax, you point at the guy holding the camera and call him something that might be racist.
“The Ribald Rachael Ray”
Just before climax, you tell the cameraman to get a beauty of these tomatoes while you shoot your load into the G.B.
“The Kinetic Bald Man in Pink Pants”
Just before climax, you leap onto a treadmill and do hand pinwheels while a fellow in a bad vest does the same in perfect mirror image of you.
“The Pellucid O’Donnell”
Just before climax, you wangle a guest spot on Nip/Tuck in which you show off thinner than usual thighs in a transparent maneuver for a little bandwidth.
“The Less-Than-Sanitary Gomez”
Exactly like The Dirty Sanchez except that Triscuits are involved.
“The Moist Mohammed”
Just before climax, you violate an obscure subsection of the Patriot Act with a saliva-coated left (of course) testicle.
“The Creepy Michelle Gellar”
Just before climax, smear a chalk-pale Asian kid on your partner’s upper lip, then wait for box office receipts to mount.
That’s all we got, D.D. Fare thee well, thanks for the laughs, and may you continue to make rent until such time that the infomercial contract comes through. And know that we still respect you, perversely, for continuing to trade on your notoriety Every Which Way But Loose. We ain’t all Gene Simmons. Or Flava Flav. And all God’s children got to eat.
Next Edition: Our response when Alan Thicke becomes the hot new gag on some profitable comedy broadcast that credits us not.