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I went to see Dustin Diamond perform at a local comedy club. I had a few drinks. Post-show, he was standing outside of the club taking Polaroids with fans and signing autographs. I told him that we were going to get drinks and that he was welcome to join us, but instead he asked for my phone number. For some reason I still don’t understand, I wrote it down on a piece of paper.
A couple of neat J&Bs later, my phone rang.
“Do you want to come to my hotel room at the Marriott,” Dustin Diamond asked.
“What? No.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line and a lot of heavy breathing. Then Dustin asked where we were having drinks and if he could still meet up.
“Whatever, weirdo,” I said. And then I told him where we were.
Dustin Diamond showed up in a Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and Tevas. He was smoking a thin cigar. There were reflective wrap-around Ray-Bans perched on the top of his poorly kept hair. He pulled out a chair and turned it around and sat down in it backwards.
“I’m a tits man,” he said.
“What are you even talking about? Stop doing that,” I said.
Screech ordered a frozen daiquiri. He kept putting his sunglasses on whenever anyone else was talking and then when he started talking he would take them off really fast like he was trying to emphasize a point, but all he kept talking about was Adult Swim cartoons.
“Are you guys getting horny?” he asked.
“You mean is listening to you talk about Adult Swim cartoons while you keep taking your sunglasses off and putting them back on again and not actually listening to what the rest of us is even talking about making us horny?”
Dustin Diamond rubbed at his pants. “Yeah!”
One of my friends leaned over. “What is up with Dustin Diamond?” I shook my head. I did not know what was up with Dustin Diamond.
“This always works,” Dustin Diamond said.
“What always works?” I asked. Dustin Diamond just kept rubbing his pants and making loud slurping noises with the dregs of his frozen daiquiri. Eventually someone ordered him another one just so he wouldn’t be able to keep making that noise. It was really annoying.
“MOO GOO GAI PAN!” Dustin shouted, and stopped rubbing his pants.
Every time I reached for the check, Dustin Diamond would interrogate me. Finally a friend at another bar called and we were able to stay dressed and go. Screech seemed to finally get the message, but he wouldn’t stop talking.
“Yikes,” someone said as we walked down the street. And then everyone was really quiet for a really long time.
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Lol.
If that was me, I would NOT have given him my phone number.
LOL
Where were the Halloween figurines?
Perfect. As soon as you posted the other one, I was praying that this would follow. You didn’t let me down!
Hilarious.
You left out the part about Screech assuming you were Jewish.
And, ew, I just realized I read this in Gabe’s perspective.
EEEEEEWWWWWW.
Now I’m not acting commissioner of the PCPD or anything, but is that “eww” because it’s two guys? Just curious…
No, it’s because Gabe’s so dreamy that he can have any man, woman or animal he wants, and to do it with Screech would be like leaving your Lambo in the garage to drive a Pinto. That explodes.
So he didn’t give you a dirty sanchez?
Gabe is really good at making me feel angry, nauseous, and sad all at the same time.
This is such a hilariously pathetic portrait that it seems more anecdotal than fiction. Did he have “Friends Forever” as his ringtone?
Kudos for not going with the obvious dramatic dénouement which basically reads “The outbursts continued apace, punctuated by more slurps and increasingly graphic autostimulation. Finally, after the bartender rang an antique brass chime and announced last call, we were given the opportunity to beat a hasty retreat to the welcoming quiet of the empty sidewalk. ‘Wow, said my friend ‘talk about being saved by the bell!’ We all laughed.”
…So who’s gonna see the midnight showing of Bruno tonight?? We need a movie club now!!
And Harry Potter on Tuesday, because duh.
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So now we have a series of fake “I slept with Screech” short stories.
Pretty funny, but I was hoping for one about how you and Gwyneth do a cleanse together. Like with you two sitting on side-by-side toilets made of the finest marble in her 1500 square foot lavatorium (Gyweth despises the word “bathroom”); sharing cookie recipes, talking about naming children after fruit, listening to Coldplay and pooping.
A good answer to the, “Have you met anyone famous?” question. You should write a couple of these and sell them to NYC Tourists.