For the record, I didn't cheat. Over a hundred people wrote me with their suggestions, and not one of them picked both jokes. Although some came close. For all you poor-guessing losers out there, don't feel so bad. Only the Mighty Kreskin could have won that contest.

The key to figuring out which jokes piqued the wrath of the venue promoters in Johannesburg lies in a glitch in the matrix of South African culture. It manifests itself, sadly, in the cuntrosity of the people. And by that, I mean the white people.

South Africa is a puritanical country with a long history of institutionalized disenfranchisement that many of the white people there arrogantly defend with a Gestapo-esque blind sense of nationalism. Kind of like America... 70 years ago. Except Americans spent the better part of the 20th century struggling through the WEB Dubois' "Color Line" so that at least the fair-minded crackers among us can admit, "Oops." We can at least discuss the possibility of reparations (as long as black people agree to stop Martin Lawrence from making another Big Momma's House). In fact, we have come so far that we--a country comprised mostly of honkeys!--might elect a black president this year! Granted, South Africa beat us to the punch here. They already have a black president, but that's only to the severe chagrin and/or embarrassment of every white South African I met. Whenever I mentioned the opinions and politics of the incumbent president, it was uniformly met with an eye roll and a nervous laugh.

As a result, racial humor seems to work differently in these two bizarrely analogous yet distinct societies. In America, most racially insensitive/potentially incendiary jokes work on two deeply psychological levels:

1. Deindividuation. There needs to be a large group of people to buffer the possible personal nature of racial jokes. In other words, smaller crowds become a much trickier forum for anything edgy, particularly regarding race, sex, and religion. If the joke is thrown into a ribald crowd of people who feel anonymous, they will laugh from their gut without feeling singled out.

2. White Guilt Delay. Even in large crowds, 'white guilt' is a hugely important factor in the reception of jokes about race. White people will look around at whatever race is the subject of the joke to see their reaction before they will allow themselves to laugh. Once they see that, they might laugh, approximately 5 seconds after the joke has landed. Mike Vecchione calls it the '5 second white guilt delay.'

Mind you, this works only with a GOOD joke... or somewhat good joke. When you combine a shitty, bomb of a joke with racially challenging material, you have Michael Richards. The problem with Michael Richards is not that he said the forbidden word, it's that he is (was, rather) the shittiest comic on the Laugh Factory stage.

An iconic New York comic, Rick Shapiro, often uses this charmer: (to a woman not laughing at his material) Why are you offended? It's not like I called your pussy a nigger or something!

Hey, I don't think that joke is funny, but it instinctively made me laugh before I had a chance to slide the filter over my concept of what 'funny' is. Does that mean I'm intrinsically racist or is it mostly the essence of surprise? I think shocking words still subconsciously thrill me. Plus, when I heard it I already knew there were no black people around.

Regardless, is that actually offensive? It's a word without any spite attached to it. Yelling the same word to a pair of African-American niggers in the balcony is a completely different matter. Shame on him!

My point is, all of this stuff would have flown in South Africa.

I was actually amazed at how quickly the South Africans laughed at the joke about black people jumping over the fences of the gated communities in their hometown. The 5 second white guilt delay was completely removed from the equation because these people seem to have NO concept of white guilt. Either "white guilt" never took root, or it's still in its embryonic phase and won't blossom into AA-style regimentalism for another generation or two. Personally, I am leaning toward the former since nearly every South African I talked to said that 'racism wasn't an issue' in South Africa like it is in the "Stets." On the flip side of that rose colored coin, I spoke to a girl later that night who said, without the slightest lipcurl of irony, "I can't walk down the street at night without getting raped." It took all my self-control not to ask her, "...How often do you walk down the street at night?"

Whether racism was an issue or not in THEIR minds, every single joke I told about AIDS or black people got instant laughs, some even got applause breaks.

Why? Well, first of all, the only people in Johannesburg, with few exceptions, with disposable income are white! The crowd at the Montecristo Casino was a salton sea of crackers. I felt like I was at a Larry the Cable Guy concert except this audience had both money and teeth.

This is a long, round-about way of saying that no one who read Part 1 of this story surmised the correct answer because I didn't give them the 411 that white South Africans are a bunch of 18th century-Pioneer days- small pox in blankets-your name is Toby RACISTS! Without that crucial caveat, there would really be no way to know that the answer to the question of what got me kicked off-stage was number 7 and number 8.

7 and 8? You huff and scroll!

Yes... 7 and 8

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.

Race stuff is fair game, but COCKS! OH MY GOD!

And 'pussy whipped?' How is that offensive? Don't they use that expression on Spongebob Squarepants?

Well, apparently that particular IDIOM doesn't exist in the South African lexicon. As I worked through my set to the pleasure of the crowd, the two venue directors were probably stuck on some sort of grotesque vaginal mental image. A giant fleshy vulva with arms like Vishnu cracking a rawhide strap on the poor guy in the front row. A riding crop composed of moist vagina or, worse, desiccated pussy leather -- a much more Buffalo Bill 'Silence of the Lambs' image.

"All theeeees talk of 'Cocks' and 'pussy whips', it's completely eeeeeenappropriate!'

Allegedly, that was the sentence that propelled Duncan to tell Chubby MC to get me off the stage ASAP. I had two more shows in South Africa and now I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to get through my sets. Were there other idioms that were going to set people off? Could I at least make fun of Zola Budd or Retief Goosen?

Our next stop was the coastal city of Durban and the venue directors in Johannesburg vehemently assured Duncan that my "material eeeesn't gonna go over will in Duuuuubin!"

What was I going to do? Should I just use the Michael Richards set and crush the South African audiences? I couldn't become Gallagher overnight and smash watermelons with a mallet for my whole set! Although, in retrospect, I'm sure the white audiences would relish seeing me demolish the favorite fruit of black people.

All I knew was that it was 75 degrees at night in December, I had a running tab of 40,000 South African yen (or whatever the fuck the currency is) running at the outdoor bar and I was contemplating my 5th Jack on the rocks.

Jamie, Duncan, and I sat back as the soft semi-tropical midnight zephyrs of Johannesburg wafted through the outdoor portico, and we laughed about it (a little). The amber lights from the now emptying Montecristo Casino glowed softly like fluorescent fireflies as Duncan ordered another bottle of local sweet wine. I glanced down at my notepad and saw a bit I'd written earlier that day. It was a faux reality TV show idea about African shanty towns called "While You Were Out Raping." I read it over again with impish glee, knowing full well that I would never have the balls to put it in my set.

At a small circular table across from us, four cute little blonde master-racists coquettishly looked on and giggled. I reclined in my chair and smiled back, which only redoubled the giggle caucus. Wow, I got yanked off stage and I'm still being hit on? Ahhhh, the life of a comic. It's not fair, but, alas, I knew that I would be going home alone tonight...

...because, looking at my scribbled bit, all I could think of at the moment was eeny, meeny, miny, AIDS.

Posted by Bill Dawes at 1:46 PM

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