Bill Dawes - May 4, 2007

When we arrived at the surprisingly ghetto-tastic Kuwait International Airport on Monday night, we were met and prepped by our USO Liason, Tracy. Almost immediately, she informed us that, if we weren't careful, we could end up top-bunking it in a Kuwaiti prison. And apparently, those jails are no day at the desert.

We were warned first about "illegal substances." Basically, in Kuwait, "substances" are "illegal." Extremely illegal. The penalty for possession of a single spliff of marijuana is a mandatory seven-year jail term. What's the average life expectancy of someone in a Kuwaiti jail? 6 years. That's right, you don't need an abacus to figure out that math: you smoke, you die. No lie.

Just to make things extra shitty with a side of diarrhea sauce, Kuwaiti law mandates that the clothes you enter the jail with serve as your prison clothes for the duration of your sentence. In other words, if you're a Ricky Martin fan who happens to be wearing a mesh top with white Capri pants while enjoying a nice relaxing Corona on the boulevard, you will be sent to the clink to spend the next 6 years of your miserable and deteriorating life picking long wiry Arab stomach/pube hairs out from the webbing of your shirt and the clench of your starfish. Why? Oh yeah, alcohol is illegal there too, Johnny Hotpants! All of it. In short, Kuwait blows a herpied cock.

Speaking of which, numerous soldiers bragged to us that Kid Rock spent pretty much his entire USO tour drunk, stoned, and getting blown by "Bunker Betties" and "Conex Connies" -- those are the code names for the female soldiers and locals who hang around after sunset waiting for a little cock--in this case, limp-dick Kid Rock cock (I saw the video).

In case your parents aren't longshoremen, Connexes are those long rectangular storage containers you see down at the docks in educational video games like "Grand Theft Auto III." The same ones you see in sundry colors being pulled by trains. Ironically, if you're in Kuwait or Iraq, those storage units are where you will have to go if you want to pull a train; because, despite the US government having basically built walled-in cities over there, the military still has not officially acknowledged the existence of "sex," so there is no protocol for it. They have to sneak it in (no pun intended).

Connex Connie's Pussy Can Be Hazardous to Your Health

Speaking of covert vaginas, as we went through customs (a little too easily) in Kuwait, Tracy warned us about the women in the black "ninja suits." Apparently, you're not supposed to take pictures of them. The Muslims believe that you can destroy the soul of a woman by casually taking her picture. According to ancient Muslim tradition, only the MEN are allowed to casually destroy a woman's soul. Irony alert: the women don't know this rule because their patriarchal society does not allow them to read.*

Even more bizarre, we weren't allowed to so much as LOOK at the women in the ninja suits--and definitely no direct eye contact. If you do, an irate Kuwaiti male will feel immensely disrespected and declare a mini-jihad on you as he ululates in displeasure. Unfortunately, the airport was swarming with those ninjas (ninjadettes)--how could I not look? I felt like I was at the Gay Pride Parade in Manhattan, nudging and gesturing with my chin and raised brows towards a particularly fagtastic shim. You don't wanna look... but you have to.... But you don't want to... but you fucking HAVE TO!!! Jamie joked that one of the ninja women showed him a nose; it was like "Kuwaiti Girls Gone Wild!"

We loaded up all of our luggage and piled into a bus that would be our transportation in both Kuwait and Iraq. It would be the vessel for much of my exchange and experience with the crazy world we'd just entered. In fact, I ended up on intimate terms with it after riding around and waiting inside of it for hours on end.

The bus was a 30-seater. It wasn't yellow, so it didn't fit into the classic "short bus" mold that carted around all the tardos in public school; the ones we, in the longer bus, would laugh at while simultaneously fearing ("retard strong" is not just an empty expression). No, this bus was blue and white and clean like the paratransits that cart around dying and faltering old people. The difference is, ours was (allegedly) bulletproof and didn't smell like mothballs and piss-marinated diapers.

This looked nothing like the bus, but the picture makes me want to smoke weed

Like a good, wannabe black kid, I went to the very back row of the bus. Not surprisingly, fellow Wigger Casper went back there too. Although this wee Canuck had an attitude and adopted a hardcore gangsta façade, he still called "Safety" each time he farted. I made it a point to call him immature. Much to my chagrin, weeks later, back in Los Angeles, I found myself yelling "Safety" at a dinner party after letting out a silent-but-deadly.

Almost in unison, we all opened our duffle bags, and took out our cameras and camcorders to capture the cookie-cutter Kuwaiti architecture. The buildings passing us were at once gaudy and prosaic. All the houses, hotels, and offices were pretty much the same color; which was a variation of, what else, sand. They looked like Lincoln Logs or Legos, rigid and box-shaped. At some point in the vast monochromatic beige palette that was the Kuwaiti countryside, we saw a pink house. Surely, that had to be the Kuwaiti gay. Although sodomy is punishable by death in Kuwait, maybe he was drilling into some good oil (if you know what I mean).

Suddenly, Tracy told us that a mosque was coming up on our right and that we were not to film it. She said if we did, we would get chased down. "Nuh-huh," I said, astutely. Tracy just solemnly nodded, affirming that she had seen it happen. It made me angry-- my Sony isn't desecrating the holiness of Muhammad. The Muslim religion has already done that enough on its own, I thought, as I surreptitiously resumed filming. I couldn't help it. My need to blatantly disregard stupid rules is almost pathological.

After five minutes with our cameras rolling, we realized "Hey... this is boring!"

Even the mosques made me think, "Get over yourselves, fucking mosques!" Roletter tried to put the camera down, but Jamie told him to film everything. Bad planning. I guess it's just impossible for Americans to enter the Middle East with ANY plan that involves foresight. Roletter kept filming boring brown trapezoids until we arrived at our hotel: the Radisson.

One of the more disappointing facets of traveling is this: spin the globe and stop it with your index finger; the span of your fingernail alone will cover about 35404 McDonalds restaurants. It seems like there is not a place left in the world with plumbing that does not ALSO have the Hamburglar. Or at least, some imprint of America's Manifest Destiny. As American Alpha Dogs, we have pissed on the leg of the entire civilized world. I'm willing to bet there are Bushmen in Africa who feel they "deserve a break today."

Not surprisingly, our Radisson in Kuwait City was flanked by a Starbucks and an Applebee's. Inside, it looked like any other three-star hotel in America, except that the walls were festooned with portraits of famous sheiks. They all had the same head wrap, olive skin, and bushy Saddam 'stache. One of them looked remarkably like Richard Pryor. I made sure to film that and say, cleverly, "Hey, that one looks like Richard Pryor!"

Once we checked in, everyone went off to their rooms to see if they had pay-per-view porn. It was a pretty nice hotel, but apparently, the downtown Hilton is nicer. True story.

The Hilton had ham & cheese croissants. All the Radisson had was stale pita filled with goat.

Now, I grew up with very little money. When my family went on trips to visit our trailerfolk in Pennsylvania and Ohio, my dad would get one room at a Motel 6 with two double beds--my parents in one bed, my two brothers and I in, or on, the other. When I got older, and my oldest brother started reacting to the concept of the "gayness" of it, he would demand that they roll in a cot. Pretty soon it would be Don on the bed, Jim on the cot, and me on the floor, tracing the stained designs on the carpet with my finger, pretending to be asleep as my father snored, oblivious to my proximity to on-the-clock John-jizz and Hepatitis C.

So, as an adult, I get two very different reactions to hotel rooms. Two-and-a-half stars and below, I want to mainline black-tar heroin. Three stars and above, I am overcome with euphoria! I feel so out of place and ebullient whenever I'm anywhere swank like that, it makes me want to ... fuck. Something. Anything.

Being trapped in hotel rooms does weird things to me: it's a weird collusion between claustrophobia and nymphomania. I feel like if I'm in a nice hotel and I'm not getting laid, it's a total waste of hotelness. I compulsively look around like some OCD freak, up and down the hall, even giving the "fuck me" look to the 240 pound, C-cup maid with a limp. I'll look in the medicine cabinet to see if a midget got stored there. Once I'm outside, I can have conversations, I can drink coffee, laugh, and appear content. The SECOND I'm back in my room, I fight the urge to call exes from eight years ago to see if they are within a reasonable booty call radius. It's another one of my weird pathological issues that will eventually work itself out in therapy... once I have health insurance.

Now that's what I WANT. It mostly just takes place in my head. And that's where my surrogate addiction to hotel pay-per-view porn comes in....

What's that, front desk? Porn is ILLEGAL in Kuwait? "Punishable by death" type of thing? Hmm. You mean, I have to use my imagination if I wanna rub one out? What do I look like, a 13 year-old? My imagination doesn't have that type of focus! I have ADD! (Actually, I have HDADD--High Definition Attention Deficit Disorder: I'm really scatterbrained, but when I DO focus.... It's incredible.)*

I noticed that there was fresh fruit on a table. At first I thought it was plastic, the way they rock it at the Super 8's, but the fruit was real, even the grapes. I ate an apple, an orange, and 4 grapes. Sans porn and vivid imagination, I decided to see who I could bug.

I walked down the hall to Paul's room to see "What it do." Paul was on the phone with his wife who he loves and would never cheat on.... What an asshole! I went to Jamie's room and we decided to go to Starbucks in 10 minutes.

I returned to my room after being gone for about five minutes... and the fruit had been replaced. That apple, orange, and four grapes had been magically reinserted. I was confused. I looked around for those ninja people. Then I looked for cameras. Nothing. I ate one grape and a kiwi wedge this time, curious what would be there when I got back from the 'Bucks.

Part of the deal with coming to the Middle East was being accompanied everywhere by military escorts. There were three of them assigned to our group. They were older Americans with sunglasses, khakis, and Hawaiian shirts, who constantly stood with their hands over their balls: the classic fig leaf position.

My one goal in Kuwait was to make these guys break. I wanted them to laugh or shoot somebody, kind of like the poofy-headed Beefeaters in Britian. So I asked one of them:

"Dude, do you cover your balls because you're afraid someone might randomly kick you in the nuts?"

Without missing a beat, he said, "No, my hands are here so I feel my piece against my forearm."

Then I saw it. The arms of all the guys were bent over their Hawaiian shirts and resting loosely on unseen semi-automatics. That was... cool! I made a mental note to stop fucking with him.

They escorted us to Starbucks across the street.

The Arabic script on the right literally translates to: "Please martyr yourself at this most offensive symbol of American economic imperialism. But first, try our new lite caramel macchiato frappucino"

I met a couple locals that I wanted to party with, but the security guy pulled me aside and warned me that I could be kidnapped.

"Kidnapped? I'm worth like 40 bucks."

"Yeah, but you're an emissary of the U.S. government."

"So you're going to be around us the entire time?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You don't have to call me Sir, Greg."

"Okay, Sir."

I went back to my room and the fruit was, once again, replaced. The t.v. only had BBC and BET. It was going to be a long night...

The next morning we loaded into the Short Bus to drive to Camp Mathilda in Kuwait. We had a six p.m. show, but we had to get there early, apparently, to do a seven-hour sound check. I was psyched, actually. We were FINALLY going to meet the troops, the whole reason we were there.

The drive into the base was long and not a little spooky. We passed the first checkpoint and found ourselves sandwiched in between military convoys coming into the base for all things NOT funny. The truck in front was carrying a number of troops, machine guns at their sides. They looked weary and battle-tested. The bus became quiet. Even shit-talking Casper was silent. It was like we suddenly remembered where we were and why we were here. We never discussed it, we never quantified it, we didn't lock eyes or do cryptic nods. We just knew, collectively.

It became suddenly clear that the stringent discipline, logic, and rigmarole of military life that we had just stepped into was really just covering up an immense darkness; a darkness that we couldn't really even begin to understand. We could see it settled in their faces; eyes that spoke of sadness and loss that few civilians will ever know. Remove the attention to detail and appearance, take away the watches and patches, and it's a primordial, primitive thing -- people killing each other over land. The job of the military is simply to organize the killers. To some degree, it's about making them think it's about something else.

And the killers bouncing in the back of the flatbed in front of us were kids --19, 20 year-old boys who, because of fate, or money, or tradition, or law, had been coerced into relocating their entire lives to a desert compound. Many of them won't be able to leave the base for years, not even for R&R. Or Arbor Day. Some of the kids will never get home.

Our responsibility was simple yet daunting. We were there to make the troops forget all that shit I just mentioned, if just for a few moments. They didn't want a show, they NEEDED a show. They needed to laugh. They needed to connect to America, knowing somewhere in the dark recesses of their minds that they might not ever see it again. We also had to prove that even we liberal Yankee faggots care about them!

The bus rocked silently on the dirt road. The only sounds were Tracy whispering to our military escort and the whirr of the air conditioning.

It was intense... so I started to go over my fart and poopoo jokes again.

I started thinking about the responsibility my jokes entailed. Fuck, I'm a hack, I thought. I have NOTHING to say that will in any way affect these guys' lives. What the hell am I gonna do? Why am I a comic? Somebody hold me!

After about 14 more checkpoints and vehicle checks, we arrived at our final location. We were supposed to do a meet and greet. We had no idea who the fuck we were supposed to meet or greet, but, like the rest of the trip, we went along for the ride. We sat down at a large conference table and listened to a general (I think?) talk about Operation Iraqi Freedom and how important it was for us to be here. He then handed out the first of about a dozen certificates and medals and plaques.

Then we took pictures with a bunch of flirtatious and undersexed black chicks. I felt like I was back in high school again. Black chicks have always loved me because I'm "so stupid" and, often, "seeeemple." There was a weird dichotomy in the dynamic with them--and basically EVERY female soldier we interacted with.

As civilians, and particularly as goofy, overgrown children civilians, we would throw our arms around female officers, put 'em in headlocks, and say shit like, "What up, girl?" We didn't have to say "ma'am" or "sir" or any shit like that. We could shuck generals on the chin or just completely ignore them if we felt like it. They had no recourse, other than the hairy eyeball. Our implicit power was awe-inspiring. We couldn't get thrown in the brig! I could have called all those black soldiers nappy head hos and STILL been allowed to perform!

Finally, the meet-and-greets were done, and we went shopping at a market on the base to pass the time.

It was a moderately warm day in Kuwait, about 234 degrees Celsius. We walked around, looking at knickknacks. Unbeknownst to me, I was a "very special friend" to all the Kuwaiti merchants peddling their wares. Because of my rare kinship with these little brown men, they afforded me a "very, very special price" on all their goods.

How could I pass that up? I ended up buying a doohicky and a trinket. I also bought an ashtray made of brass, rosewood, and camel bone for the special friend price of $20. I gave it to my ex-girlfriend, Rachel, so she wouldn't hate me; part of the reason I broke up with her was because she was a smoker. I figured it would be a nice, ironic parting gift when she moved out. Just kidding... she dumped me.

Then we went to the PX (that's military for "Walgreens") and made fun of Jamie because none of his DVDs were there. We made sure to point out that Larry the Cable Guy DVDs were aplenty, and they even had a couple Pauly Shore flicks. We asked some corporal why there were no Jamie Kennedy movies there, and he quickly responded: "Sold out." Well played, soldier.

We went out to look at the stage and do sound check. It was a makeshift outdoor stage facing a series of three large bleachers. People were already waiting for the show. I went out with my camcorder to meet them and say hey. They didn't know what the fuck to make of me. Luckily, it soon would be showtime...

As the sun set, DJ Joey Nicks came out and started spinning on the turntable. Troops and staff started filling in the bleachers and seats. The crowd was growing by the minute. DJ Joey Nicks "spun" for what seemed like forever. He would scream, "Y'all ready to get the show started?" They would scream back and then he would spin another song. Then he would repeat the same thing. He did this for like half an hour. I wanted to smash his Mexican cajones into guacamole! Hell, I was nervous. Not puke-in-a-sink, Eminem 8 Mile nervous, but nervous enough to have involuntary pee-drippings on my pantaloons.

Suddenly, one of the USO liaisons, a captain, came up to me and said, "Have fun! Remember, be clean. After you get to Baghdad and north, do what you want, but you have to be family-friendly here." That made me even more nervous. I honestly had no idea what I was going to say.

Although that's a fun idea when I'm buzzed on the road in Shaumberg, Illinois, it seemed less appropriate when faced with the paradox of performing "family-friendly" material in a war zone. I like to think that I can go up clueless and just magically find my way into a groove. Sometimes, that works. Sometimes, I feel like a total asshole. The captain looked me square in the eyes and shook my hand. Fuuuuuuuuuck that hurt, I thought, shaking my hand in pain..... and that gave me an idea for my first joke.

Joey finally called for me. I walked onstage and gave him the finger.

"What's up, motherflockers!" I shouted. "You are the toughest motherflockers in the world! One of the captains just shook my hand and that shit hurt, man. I winced, I peed my pants a little.... Hey, don't laugh, that woman is STRONG!"

They laughed. Okay, not a lot, but enough. I was relieved. Time for fart jokes....

It ended up being a successful show with troops dancing onstage with us and Paul Wall bringing it home.

Kuwait military airport before our trip to Baghdad, from Left to Right: Paul Wall, Security Bob, Roletter, Jamie, Casper, Security Dan (note hand on balls), Stu "the Jew" Stone, DJ Joey Nicks... I'm in the back, trying to hold the flag up like a douchebag

Afterwards, at about twenty-one hundred (figure it out), I had to take a wizz. I had to be escorted whenever I went to the bathroom, and usually it was by a soldier who was assigned, I guess, to "comic piss duty." And yes, it was always a "piss" because there was no way my asshole would open up in those cesspools called Port-a-Potties out there. I tried once, heard a soldier screaming "Hooah!" as he was ripping out a superdupe in the shithole next to me, and I got so freaked out that my BM went back up my intestine and reformed the sandwich I ate earlier that day.

On the way over to the john, the following exchange occurred:

"Hey, great show, man!"

"Thanks, bro, I appreciate it."

"I bet if you want, you could get one of those girls to blow you."

"Whachutalkingaboutwillis?"

"It was a good show. I'm 100 percent sure you could get a bj over in Haji Alley right now."

"What's Haji Alley?"

"It's that place you were earlier where all the sand niggers sell their crappy shit."

"Crappy? I spent $20 on that ashtray!"

"You want me to try to set that up?"

"What? A blowjob in Haji Alley?"

"Yeah, man."

"With who?"

"I'll get someone."

"Isn't that illegal or something?"

Then he just laughed and shook his head at my naivete and my apparent hatred of blowjobs. The whole way back to our little blue and white bus, I couldn't help but think....

Was that ashtray a rip-off?

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* That was a guess. They can probably read, but it sounded better that way. I apologize to no one, nor will I Google "Kuwaiti women" + "read" to find out the truth.

** Steven Wright joke (who else could say something that funny?)

Posted by Bill Dawes at 3:16 PM