It shouldn’t be the least bit surprising that Dustin Diamond, aka Screech, continues to cash in on the only good thing that’s ever happened to him.
Behind The Bell exists entirely in the psychic space of the sad, sour failed joke. You know the experience. You’re at a bar in a strange city. A guy who has had a few drinks too many fixes his boozy gaze in your direction, gestures over at a bosomy, exhausted-looking waitress nearby, and leers, “Boy, I bet she can really suck the chrome off a tailpipe.” He can’t tell whether you heard him, so he repeats the quip. Only this time, there’s an aggressive, insistent edge. This time, he’s sure you’ve heard the joke and found it lacking, so before he returns to his scotch, he lets out a bitter, defiant, “What are you, a fag? Whatever.”
Behind The Bell exists entirely in that moment, only Diamond isn’t making a smutty crack about an anonymous waitress at a bar; he’s draping a chummy arm over our collective shoulder, winking, and saying, “Man. That Tiffani-Amber Thiessen. What a fucking cum-Dumpster, am I right?” and expecting us to collectively give him a high five of brotherly solidarity. He doesn’t seem to understand why we’d respond with anything but vulgar enthusiasm, because Dustin Diamond assumes that everyone is as horrible as he is. That has to be a dreadful way to go through life.
Eeesh. Amazingly, the review gets even worse from there.