Saturday, October 7, 2006

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—

Mr. DiamondThe Facts
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

Mr. MichaelsMany 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

The Implications
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.

Mr. SanchezThe 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.

Even you.

Next Edition: Our response when Alan Thicke becomes the hot new gag on some profitable comedy broadcast that credits us not.

Mr. Thicke1Alan Thicke, O you poisonous Canadian sitcom monkey wrench, now we sing of you. Though not the kitschy sensation that is Dustin Diamond’s Screech, Alan Thicke’s seven-year run as patriarch/shrink Dr. Jason Seaver on the Kirk Cameron–starring idiot-com Growing Pains is another example of accidental fame at its most jarring. Before that, however Mr. Thicke famously failed at hosting a U.S. late-night talk show, Thicke of the Night. T.O.T.N. sucked, and then it spawned the careers of comedy abominations Louis Anderson and Arsenio Hall—a kind of trifecta of entertainment disquietude, we suppose. Also, please note: Mr. Thicke is composer of the television themes for Wheel of Fortune and The Facts of Life, among others. The guy is ditty-licious, and we lay it down for him, disquieting though his fame was.

2 The scandal involving Mark Foley, the criminal Republican from Florida, and his sexually explicit instant messages with teenage boys who had been congressional pages is, we should not have to say, a true disquieting modern trend. It just makes us sad, and we have nothing funny to say about it, other than to note that this fucker was elected by actual voters a bunch of times.

3 There is much to say about Saturday Night Live, of course, not the least of which is that—for all of its manifest suckage over its 30-plus years of existence—it’s still the best sketch comedy on U.S. TV. We are heartened by the fact that NBC, bleeding money like a drug addict on the set of HBO’s The Wire[3a], has cut S.N.L.’s budget and pared the whole thing back to fighting weight. No more “featured players,” no more token fat guy, no more extra padding around the middle. Now: if they can just stop repeating that idiotic skit where the only joke is that the weird Euro-couple have the same first name, we’ll really be getting somewhere.

3a The best show on TV, hands down, thanks. And don’t let us hear you start bitching about the primacy of Deadwood, you wankers, or we will have John Wayne come back from the dead and say “motherfucker” in your ear so loud you’ll wish you lived in West Baltimore. Or we’ll make you Rosie O’Donnell’s fluffer on Nip/Tuck.

4 You are on notice, Daily Show—you’re next.

5 Let it also be noted that Mr. Savelyev—apparently a callow undergrad at B.U. with much to learn about the viciousness of our in-house counsel and his pack of possibly rabid border collies—recently published a piece of “comedy writing” right here on the Y.P.R. in which he joked about the recent prevalence of nicknames in the style of “J. Lo” and conjoined celebrity nicknames such as “Bennifer.” [“Dear K-Fed”, Y.P.R., October 2, 2006. ] We acknowledge that this material is the very definition of low-hanging fruit the likes of which we are not ashamed to pluck, and pluck it we did—first: The D.M.T. “Branding” Edition. We would like Master Simon to think, while Sally is giving him his quickie “manicure,” about the hand that, er … feeds him. And listen, Kid: next time you want to steal our shit, have the grace to rip us off via basic cable or maybe one of the networks, like the rest of the shiftless wannaDMTers out there. Do not shit where you sleep. It’s bad form all around. Thus endeth the lesson. Where are the chips?

6 Yeah, that’s right. Groups of porn stars—at least male ones—now get together in little posses to make movies in a little gang, like a bunch of pop stars recording “We Are the World.” Do these guys hang out after a day’s shooting to get beers? Do they break up when one of them starts dating Yoko?

7 We will confess to finding it mildly disquieting that every sex act and every sex position seems to require a name. The dizzying array of such names—“Reverse Cowgirl”, “Dining at the Y” (D.A.T.Y.)—is making carnal relations more and more like an N.F.L. playbook that really needs to be memorized and mastered in the preseason, and confirming our deeply insecure fears that the girls are just being nice to us so we will go to sleep and leave them alone. Though we’re not afraid to boast of our status as first round draft picks, we’ll admit to some concern about being placed on the disabled list now and again.

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