The year was 2002 and Richard Cheese was on tour. He was all set to play at a local place, maximum capacity of four hundred on the outside. The place had a trademark of sorts, tables had lit fires inside, fueled through gas cans set underneath. Outside it was raining and the temperature was low. Inside it was an inferno.
We came for Dick Cheese, we stayed for Dustin Diamond. He was the main attraction, which, then as it does today, disgusted me.
Dustin Diamond has been my nemesis since middle school. I remember his sudden shot to B-list celebrity stardom from a show that I didn't find funny, even at ten years of age. He was on the road with his new comedy tour. He was there, with Richard Cheese, to perform stand up comedy.
Richard Cheese's set was a joy. Fun, lively, he got the room going and played us like fiddles. Which is, of course, what I paid for.
After his set I went up to him to purchase a CD, which he signed. I had some beers in me at that point, so I asked him to sign my tit, which he did.
Then Dustin Diamond stepped on stage to minimal applause. I firmly believe that not a single person was there because they thought he was funny, we were all there to see what he was going to say, and hopefully see a little more. Like a train wreck.
His set started off tamely enough, with some almost clever lines. Much of his opening dealt with how various members of Saved by the Bell were gay and how he fucked Elizabeth Berkely because she was obviously a slut.
There were little ripples of laughter through the crowd, because he was cute, despite the fact that he was taking the easiest road to these jokes possible.
Then Mr. Diamond made the worst mistake he could possibly have made. See, this town is a fairly free, open, liberal town, and the neighborhood where he was being featured was right down the road from the Drag Queen reviews and popular and famous gay bars.
"He-Man? Who remembers He-Man? He was a FAG." Instant silence, crickets chirping. Everyone stopped and immediately turned to their friends and began their own conversations. And he had twenty minutes left before that red light went on, allowing him to leave the stage and get his money.
It was wonderful.
As he kept trying to continue the crowd began to turn on him. I pushed my way to the front of the room, hoping to get my other tit signed. He wasn't, after all, doing anything more important at the moment.
I walked up to him and asked him to sign my tit. "I WILL SIGN NO MAN'S TIT!" I held up my shirt, showing off the "RC" above my left nipple. "Richard Cheese did it!", I shouted, as the crowd began chanting "SIGN HIS TIT! SIGN HIS TIT!"
He had no escape, so he agreed to do so after the show. I, like an idiot, bought it. He attempted to mock me a little, and we all, united as one in our frustration with this man, heckled right back.
It was wonderful.
The show ended with Mr. Diamond running directly off stage and behind the curtain, where his too hot girlfriend consoled him after his staggering defeat. I pleaded with the bouncer to let me back there, but, through his laughter, he said he had a job to do, and that job didn't involve a marker scrawling a crude DD above my right nipple.