Gazing at Andrew Dice Clay's puffy, bloated visage, Joey Buttafuoco pants, and Bedazzler-damaged leather jacket, it's hard to believe that a decade ago he was a pop-culture phenomenon with a big-budget film, best-selling albums, and a string of sold-out concerts. It's been downhill ever since, and for proof of how far Clay has fallen, here's his latest bargain-basement home video, which features a poorly preserved, painfully middle-aged Diceman performing in front of an audience of skanky thirtysomething dullards nostalgic for the hateful bile of their stone-washed glory days. Clearly dispirited, Clay performs his witless, nearly punchline-free routine with the vague determination of an over-the-hill prize fighter, indifferently slugging away because he doesn't know how to do anything else. Beginning with his once-infamous dirty nursery rhymes, Clay sticks to the classics, with only references to President Clinton's marital woes and the O.J. Simpson trial giving any indication that his early-'90s heyday has ended. Whether heckling an audience member unfortunate enough to bring his mother to the show or launching into what feels like an hour-long verbal assault on midgets, Clay seldom strays from puerile bullying, peddling cheap shock in lieu of anything to say about life or society. It's this infantile desire to offend without critiquing or subverting that makes Clay such a sad creature, a greaser fascist vicariously acting out the fantasies of an emotionally stunted audience. Clay at least seems vaguely ashamed of himself and his material, at one point admitting that he wouldn't go to see somebody perform a disgusting act like his, a sentiment that will resonate with anyone watching this vaguely tragic, wholly unfunny attempt at a comeback.