Sewth Effreekah, Paaht 1 - February 26, 2008

"We've had quite enough of YOU!"

The words came booming over the God mike, conspicuously ordering me off stage in front of over a thousand similarly confused audience members.

Where the fuck was that coming from? Some bitch, somewhere tantalizingly close, was being conveniently obscured by night sky, spotlights, and the vast network of speakers arrayed across the courtyard of the Montecristo Casino in Johannesburg, South Africa.

I whipped my head around like a Greaser at a knife fight, to no avail. There were neither Jets nor Sharks behind me to shank or save my ass. On the fringe of conscious behavior, I jammed the microphone into the stand and did the Project Runway/just-pooped-my-undershorts shuffle of shame off-stage. To say that my current international tour was starting out inauspiciously is an understatement.

It was my first international set since the Camp Liberty gig in Baghdad and, once again, I had managed to create some controversy. At least in Iraq, the USO let me finish offending them before they summoned me over the next day with an index finger and an, 'Um... not so much.'

As I tentatively walked -- with my back to the audience -- up the 30 foot length of jutting catwalk offstage in the lingering pin-drop silence, I did a 4 bloopbloop TiVo rewind of my half-hour set to track down the precise moment I crossed the line. I imagined there must have been some unseen maelstrom in the recesses of the courtyard that precipitated my ouster. For the life of me, though, I couldn't hone in on the joke, or jokes, that caused it. I reached the end of what felt like the never-ending corridor in Poltergeist, and the speakers suddenly crackled to life again: "Sorry about that! Now, are you ready to get the show moving along with your headliner?!!!"

I stood backstage in my best pissed off white boy stance -- arm akimbo, necked jutted forward, mouth agape, eyes overtly bugged. "What the fuck was that?" I asked, first to myself and then to the sundry embarrassed unknowns hovering backstage. I looked around for an answer, but people avoided me like I was the kid in the cafeteria who dipped his fries in mayonnaise. "What happened?" I pleaded to everyone, to God, and to no one in particular. I mean, I have had incidents before where I made bad judgment calls. For instance, once during Jay Davis' very popular "Life of the Party" show in Los Angeles, I did a joke about fisting a kindergarten teacher. In front of his church group. Oops. But I was utterly bewilderbeested as to why the South Africans were offended.

Similarly perplexing was my emotional state: I wasn't furious. At least not yet. If a wall of sheet rock started talking shit to me at that moment, I probably would have left it holeless. Luckily (or not), a solitary vodka and soda clouded my thoughts just enough to cool the brunt of the hot Irish anger that was beginning to bubble up inside me like magma in a confused, blonde-haired volcano. The funny thing is, if I'd been 100 percent sober, I might have lost my cool. And if I'd had a couple more drinks in me I probably would have gotten downright Irish. By that, I mean I would have gone magically ballistic. Oddly, the calm of the single cocktail seemed to perfectly see-saw my emotional state on the fulcrum between 'hahathat'slife!' and 'I'm going to kill a hobo with my bare hands!'

I sat down for a moment and allowed my hyperlogical side to take over and methodically analyze the facts:

1. I was in the middle of a very sweet, innocent, Comedy Central-clean bit about spooning my girlfriend, when someone over a microphone cut me off by saying, "Okay, okay, I think it's time to get the show moving along with your headliner!"

2. When I responded, "I'm in the middle of a bit, let me finish," she continued with "That's okay! You guys ready for your headliner?".

3. Then I asked, "Where are you?" and got no response.

4. When I followed the silence with, "Don't interrupt me in the middle of a bit, that's not cool." she responded with , "Ohhhh... We've had quite enough of YOU!" (note: since she had one of those goofy South African accents, it sounded more like "Ewwwwwwwwwww!")

5. Okay... then I said "Show yourself so I can kick you in your twat!" (in my defense, I categorize comments like that under something I call 'PERFORMANCE TOURETTES.' When someone inappropriately interrupts you in the middle of an endorphin-laced performance - acting, singing, stand-up - you are allowed to ejaculate ANYTHING! This includes curse words, threats of soccer-style cunt kicks, and... well, ejaculation, if you have the wherewithal and ability.)

6. That's when I placed the mike into the stand, casually walked upstage on the catwalk asking passersby "what happened?"

7. Now I am sitting on a stool, and standing next to me are very official-looking people with laminated passes, and Jamie Kennedy.

Jamie, brows furrowed, was on one level, I'm sure, thinking "What the fuck did Bill do NOW?" I actually know this to be true because he said to me, "Bill what the fuck did you do NOW?" On another level, he seemed to sense that bullshit was amok in the state of Denmark.

Based on my previous misstep with the USO, I quickly Heismanned (that means 'stiff-armed' or 'rebuffed' to the women and soccer-playing homosexuals in the blogosphere) what I'm sure was his biggest fear: "NO! I did NOT do the Nestle Knockout bit! (the aforementioned fisting kindergarten teacher joke). 'Jamie, do you know who the fuck kicked me offstage!?"

Just then, out of my peripheral vision, a pear-shaped, bespectacled bottle-blonde whisked past me. I recognized her as the MC who brought me up and quickly deduced that it was HER voice over the God mike. I shot up from my stool, ready for a screaming match. For better or worse, I don't back down from confrontation. As a matter of fact, I seek it out. I actually think I have a fear of NO confrontation in my life. I took a step in her direction intent on finding out what happened and an arm shot across my chest.

"Dude, let it go." It was Jamie.

At that point, what was I going to do? I was Jamie's guest. Any and everything I did that was bad or unprofessional would reflect on him. I knew I had to grin and bear it.... so to speak.

But then, I DID, in fact, grin, because I knew what was coming: Jamie was going to be working on new bits, and they weren't bits about how gadgets are annoying and women love to shop. They were bits about double anal penetration, Craig's List whores, jerking off with tube jokes. My impish curiosity served as acupressure for my anger and I nestled into a nice spot to sit and watch what I was SURE would become another behind-the-scenes meltdown.

For the most part, Jamie chickened out. He still did some R-rated material, but his sense of what happened previously was enough to steer him away from new, risky ballgags and towards his tried and true sight gags.

After the show, Duncan, the organizer of the concert, took us to dinner at the Casino. At first, when I asked him what happened, he avoided eye contact and licked his lips like he was Roger Clemens and I was asking him about the festering abscess on his ass. Ultimately I was able to scrape together enough information to find out that it wasn't him or the MC, but two women who "ran the venue" who took exception to some of my material.

There were TWO jokes, in particular, that puckered their buttholes and compelled them, in turn, to demand my early exit and present humiliation. Apparently, I found out from Duncan later on in the trip, they almost approached me during our dinner to "explain" themselves. That would have been three cocktails in. That would have been fun.

I'm going to leave this first chapter of my South African tour with a little cliffhanger/ workbook segment. In the spirit of FUN (and catharsis), I will list several jokes I told that night in Jo-burg. See if you can guess which TWO were the jokes that got me kicked offstage.

If you guess right, you will win no money, but when you die, you will attain complete spiritual enlightenment, so you'll have that going for you. Plus, the winner gets lifetime free tickets to any show at any comedy club at which I'm performing. There are only three caveats: 1) you have to send your answers to bill@billdawes.com, 2) I have to remember 3) I have to feel like it.

Although, for the most part, I am presenting the set pretty much in chronological order (that first joke was my opener,) I am removing the flow and rhythm of my set for the expediency and clarity of delineating the different bits. Out of context, some of this stuff may seem unfunny and/or horribly offensive. Rest assured, the set went over pretty well. Many South Africans approached me after the show to assure me that most South Africans aren't so uptight and that I was 'rilllly finny' and other things in their goofy accent.

Without further adieu, here they are (remember: choose TWO):

1. I love the South African accent. In America, we have a name for it: Australian. Seriously guys, you're a big industrialized nation now, can't you come up with your own goofy accent? "Oh crikey, a bloody dingo snatched my baby!"

2. Since I'm a professional comic and I'm in Johannesburg, I decided to google it for 3 minutes. Apparently, in response to the raising crime, Jo-burg has the largest number of gated communities in all of Africa. What message does that send to the world! Come on, guys, that's NOT the answer!... You know how high black people can jump! You want to scare them off, surround it with an employment center. Oh, you're right, I'm the asshole who made the unemployment rate 87 percent, according to a statistic made up just for this joke. It's dangerous here, and not just because I'm worried a 'dingo is going to snatch my baby.' Huh? This guy steeenks, that's not our iccint!

3. Things are very different here than in the states. For example, here you call it "football," but in the states we call it "boring." "Guess what, Manchester United just won 1 to 0! It was so exciting!" Wow, that sounds like the same score of which game... oh yeah, every soccer game ever. Put some offense in and make it so people don't trip and cry every 4 seconds and maybe we'll give a shit in ACTUAL countries.

4. In America, we have "sluts." HERE you have... do you have sluts here? I'm asking...

5. They also call "traffic lights" "robots." I was giving a lift to a prostitute the other day and she screamed, "Stop! There's a robot!" And I thought that all my prayers had been answered and there was an intergalactic apocalypse upon us. I was like, "Where? Where? Does it has a laser gun?"

6. The racial demographic is interesting. You guys use the terms "coloreds" as a different race other than black. In America, if you have ANY black in you, you're "black." In Africa, there's "blacks" and "coloreds." But it MEANS the same thing: you're poor. It's okay, I'm allowed to say that, I'm white.

7. You sir in the front row - you looked pussy-whipped, am I right?

8. I just got back from the Philippines, and the women there were GORGEOUS. Plus, they had really huge cocks.

9. Come on, baby, you should date me because you know what they say, "Once you go white, your vagina stays tight!" Oh come on, baby, spread apart-heid them legs for me; don't lie, you know I make you SOOO - WET - TOE. Come on, the black guys aren't the only ones having uprising here, if you know what I'm talking about, my zulu princess. I'm so hard, I guess you could call it a "blood diamond," but there ain't no conflict about it! Once you go beige, you never gonna get... Anyway, what were we talking about: love, right?

10. I think the hope of the world is "coloreds." The answer to all the problems with racism is that we all just fuck each other until we're one big Khaki race. In 500 years, we won't have blacks, white, coloreds, we'll just have khakis. That's why I don't want to marry a cracker, I want to have kids with a beautiful dark Nubian woman! Well, unless it comes out with a yellow afro. Neither team wants that! That was probably the ONLY good thing about apartheid was preventing those babies with the banafros and freckles coming out. The first time I saw one I was like, "What the fuck is THAT?!"

11. (to a Middle Eastern family walking into the show about 15 minutes in) What happened guys? You need anything... maybe a watch? What happened: did your camel break down?

12. Apparently, the government is not offering any financial assistance to the sprawling masses of shanty towns on the outskirts of the city. Since the government won't offer anything, I think they should do TV shows like they do in the states to help out the poor and disenfranchised in South Africa. Like, "While You Were Out... Raping." Or "Flip This Box?" How about "Queer Eye for the AIDS guy?" Too much? Come on, 1 out of 4 people in South Africa have AIDS. Hey, you four: eeny, meeny, miny, AIDS!

13. I was on a first date with a girl and ten minutes in, she asked me: "Do you like children?" On a FIRST date? I was like, "Yeah, when they're in Hong Kong, making my sneakers." No, of course I said "Yes," but my penis heard the question too and retracted back into my colon... Someone explain to the two black guys here what a retractable penis is. Imitating nerdy white guy: "Hey bro. See, white people learned this trick from the Inuits..."

14. It's great to see that 15 years after apartheid, black people and white people have come together to make ONE united country of poor people.

15. Your president is progressive enough to allow same-sex marriages. Is that why it's called "The Rainbow Country." Plus, how can he be that forward thinking and still believe that you can shit out the AIDS virus? (after hearing someone moan). You're right, he didn't say that, sorry -- I think his exact words were 'defecate' out the AIDS virus.

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Can YOU, my readers, guess which two were the offending jokes that got me rousted from the stage at the Montecristo casino in front of 1,000 people? As a bonus, ONE of the above jokes I didn't have the balls to say, fearing that it was way too offensive. The person who can guess the jokes that got me kicked off stage and the joke that I deemed way too offensive, even for me, will get free drinks at any show they come to see with me in it. Based on the laws of permutations and combinations, I like my odds on this one... but give it a shot. Send your guesses to me at bill@billdawes.com. Don't look at the answers in the next chapter and cheat!!!

Posted by Bill Dawes at 1:05 PM

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