To celebrate, we will do five shows over three days at the newly-monikered Times Square Comedy Club. It's just like the old Laugh Factory that the building used to house, which is just old like the old Show World strip club that the building used to house.

It's still glitzy, seedy (literally... that was a sperm joke people), gauche, and ghosts of old strangled strippers haunt it ... but in a fun way. (um, also literally. A stripper was murdered in the back dressing room shower about 9 years ago. I'm amazed they don't try to promote that more when they sell tickets to the comedy shows.)

Here are the particulars in an easy to swallow Halloween candy-size packet:

WHO: Jamie Kennedy & Bill Dawes
WHAT: It's Comedy, Stupid!
WHERE: Times Square Comedy Club (303 W. 42nd St., NY, NY 10036 -- corner of 42nd and 8th)
WHEN: Thurs 5/8 8pm, Fri 5/9 8pm and 10pm, Sat 5/10 8pm and 10pm
WHY: Why not? And how many times can you see 'Iron Man?'

Anyone who is a fan or a friend or a low-grade stalker HAS to come! This is going to be awesome. There are very limited FREE tickets and discounted tickets. So hit me up ASAP (bill@billdawes.com) if you want some of that shit. Otherwise, pay for it and support the arts, you fucking jew...

and I say that in the least anti-semitic, most slumping-consumer-confidence way possible. So please, loosen your grip on those shekels ya' schmendricks!

-------------------------

UPDATE: HALF PRICE TICKETS FOR THIS WEEKEND'S SHOWS NOW AVAILABLE!

ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS CLICK ON THIS LINK, PRINT IT OUT, AND BRING IT TO THE BOX OFFICE WHEN YOU BUY YOUR TICKETS

HERE IS THE LINK AGAIN

Anygag, the double-standards are inexhaustible.. I bet you could go back to the Stone Age and the first almost standing upright comic probably had a bit that went like this:

"Hey, buddy, you look woman-hole-whipped! I bet you're the gatherer at your cave and SHE'S the hunterer! Dude, you put the 'sap' in 'homo sapien'. You probably hold her animal skin-holdy-thing while she tries on skimpy animal skin foot coverings! Haha! I bet she clubbed YOU over the head and had sex with you when YOU were unconscious!!! These Upper Paleolithic women got ideas!!! Hahahahaa!! (please note that this joke endorses absolutely no previous knowledge of actual pre-history).

Unfortunately, as much as I chafe at the whole idea of men and women being fundamentally different, like gravity to physical movement, it's been the most consistent, immutable, restrictive set of rules governing my entire life. It drives me fucking crazy. And it's part of the reason gay comics have nothing to fucking talk about other than Judy Garland and how 'technology is annoying'; they can't delve into the antipodal nature of the sexes.

Take, for instance, the perplexing female obsession with shoes and handbags.

What's that you say? Women love shoes?! Come on, Bill, you can't steal Jeff Foxworthy's closer from 1987! You're right, person in my head, so let's start with that idea as a constant.

X= The female preoccupation with shoes that eludes 99.99% of all men.

Now, let's solve for Y(the fuck these bitches love shoes)..

When I was living with my ex-girlfriend -- a period in my life I call 'oops' -- she always tried to recruit me into her cult of footwear fascination. One of the ways she did this was by showing me pictures of shoes on ebay.

"Oh my God, it's a Manolo Blahnik mary jane, but look at the little daisy on the strap. This is soooooo cuuuuute! What do you think?"

In short, "What do you think?" is THE SINGLE MOST crucial question in the development of any relationship after "Do you like kids?" (answer: only when they're in Hong Kong making my sneakers.)

If you act too interested, she is going to mold you like a raw lump of man-clay into her very own FABULOUS "Sex and the City"-style gay bff. She will fire her new creation in the kiln of warehouse-, sample-, and department store holiday sales. And then glaze you to perfection with weekend after weekend of shoe shopping for the shelf-life (pun intended) of your relationship.

Before you know it, you're 30, it's a Saturday afternoon during college football season, and you've just driven fifty miles out of town to check out armoires at "the really good IKEA" (that's the 3rd Nordic horseman of the relationship apocalypse, by the way). You'll be standing there, with the studious furrow of an Oxford professor, seriously contemplating the pros and cons of the Leksvik model with two doors versus the Leksvik model with THREE doors, and.you'll instinctively start checking your pants, wondering "Where the fuck are my balls? I swear to God I had them when I got here! Did I leave them in the parking lot? Maybe at the Swedish meatball stand in the mini food court?"

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the ultimate goal of IKEA: to emasculate American men so they can fuck our women and continue their stranglehold on the heterosexual porn industry! ABBA was merely the first trojan horse of theirs for this purpose and it nearly succeeded.

IKEA, the most recent and insidious front for that covert operation, is Plan B. When you call IKEA lost and found, a recording will say 'PRESS 1 IF YOU LOST YOUR BALLS. OPRIMA NUMERO DOS SI PERDIO SUS CAJONES EN ESPANOL' When you press 1, all you will hear is a looping audio track of an evil Swede laughing that Muppet show "horgy-borgy" laugh in your ball-less face as you reassure yourself "But I know I had them just a minute ago!"

Of course you won't find them because they have retracted into your colon and are trying to reformulate into ovaries.

Regardless, it turns out that you didn't actually just lose your balls. You lost them years earlier, on the couch, when you spent 25 minutes toggling back and forth between pictures of two similar versions of the same shoe only to pull out your credit card, and click "BUY NOW" on both of them. Then you will say out loud "What the hell, they're both cute!" You will have actually used the word "cute" in a way that doesn't involve an inappropriate comment about a high school girl; and THAT, my friends, is a small step towards your first queef.

So, don't act too fuckin' interested in her shoes or you'll end up with a fjord between your legs, Mr. Shoelover!.

THE FLIP SIDE:

If, instead of engaging her shoe-fawning hysteria, you tell her "I don't really care," (or as I like to call it, THE TRUTH), she will perceive your words as having nothing to do with shoes themselves but rather everything to do with your FUCKING ATTITUDE, ASSHOLE!!! From her shoe-addled POV, you basically told her that you don't care whether or not she burns to death in a firey fire. You'll try to back off your disinterest, but she will never trust you again and you will spend the rest of your tortured relationship trying to convince her you love her even when, let's face it, you kind of stopped after the first time you had to ASK for a blow job. There is no sadder sentence in the world of relationships than, "Can I please have a blow job?" Invariably, it is met with a reluctant sigh. And teeth.

THE SOLUTION:

Casually look over one shoulder and say, "Yeah, babe, I bet you'd look really sexy in those." You are then allowed two, maximum three, beats before slowly backing away from the scene of the crime and busying yourself with something overtly masculine. If need be, walk around with a wrench and pretend to tighten pipe fittings on all the plumbing. She will think "Awesome, he cares but alas his manly soul has to tend to unfathomably manly things." Lather, rinse, repeat.

Which leads me to my next talking point in this disturbingly thought out shoe polemic.

Men are sexual creatures. We literally do not have the hard-wiring to properly comprehend the aesthetic details of a picture of shoes or to appreciate an actual pair when a woman holds them out, awestruck, for you to lovingly admire. Hamsters will go into overdrive, bolts and cranks and levers will creak and spin until springs snap. All to no avail. "Shoe appreciation" will remain Sphinxlike in its inscrutability.

Every so often, however, we will have that night when shoes come clearly into focus. We will be out with our woman and we'll notice that her ass is sticking out extra deliciously and flirtatiously. Her boobs are perking up ever so slightly more than normal, and the tanned definition of her supple calves jump out at us from above a pair of 4-inch heel crème colored boots.

We will think 'Fuck yes!' and want to double her over the bar stool. It is the discerning male who understands that the golden skin against the heeled crème boots and the tilt they provide, is the mechanism actually responsible for filling up our dick.

The day before, if she showed us those shoes on a table, we'd have looked at them like they were a scrambled Rubik's cube or the London Times Sunday Crossword. Just the simple act of putting them on and creating that fertile curve is like performing a magic act for a mongoloid. We will cheer with a heavy thudding, flat-hand clap and drool like retards at the Jolly Ranchers factory (retards love sour apple. True story.).

Plainly stated, the right shoes enhance a woman's fuckability, and she knows it. Ergo, we should assume that any time a woman shows us shoes she wants to be fucked. The more shoes she wants and/or owns, the more ways she wants to be fucked. You want proof? Imelda Marcos was a giant festering Filipino whore. Carrie Bradshaw from 'Sex and the City'? That slag had a new boyfriend every week for like 6 years.

See shoes, think ooze.

Therefore, X = love of shoes, Y = love of getting fucked.

But what about the handbag?

What can be said for shoes cannot be said for them. Handbag on a table; handbag on an arm. The fuckability factor remains the same. To this day, I can't discern the difference between a $10,000 Birkin and a Chinee '$5 dolla, $5 dolla!' purse made of rich Corinthean pleather. And neither one would make me want to fuck a girl more unless they had "I really want to suck you off with no strings attached, Bill Dawes" stitched into the side of them. Which they never motherfucking do, I've looked.

So now if...

X = The female preoccupation with handbags that eludes 99.99% of all men.

And we try to solve for Y(the fuck these bitches love purses), the only thing I can think of is STATUS.

Shoes= sex; Handbag=status.

I'm sure this is a newsflash to everyone, but women want status...or at least the appearance of status. Even if they are dating poor emo guys with heroin habits and baby gap jeans on; deep down they want to be taken care of and treated like princesses, and they are going to do everything they can to fool the outside world and show everyone around them that this is actually what's going on; that they are pampered royalty.

How do you reconcile this discrepancy between fantasy and reality? One word: HANDBAGS! Or maybe that's two words, who the fuck knows. You can date a guy with bed head, skinny jeans and a chain wallet as long as the world sees you out with a Versace snatch purse or even a convincing 10-gallon Gucci knock-off. You present yourself as high style, you are high style.

Best case scenario, ladies, you go on Ebay and you get a $4,000 Armani for $39.99 plus shipping and you can be your own grownup Barbie princess and STILL afford to pay for organic chicken soup and cough medicine for your faggy man-boy who's home unemployed with the sniffles listening to "Bright Eyes."

So what does it mean when you put these two fascinations together? Shoes and handbags. Well, it's pretty simple really. Let's go through the permutations:

A girl with a handbag fetish and flats has no real sex drive and wants a sugar daddy (and yes, models wear flats often, so it follows). A girl with stilettos and a backpack wants to be soundly pounded in the vagina by a dirty boy living on Ramen noodles (often, while wearing the stilettos). A girl with flats and a backpack is a dirty crunchy hippie good for nothing... unless she's French, then she's good to go (however, both types will smell like shit). Finally, a girl with stilettos and a handbag fetish is a sex worker.

There, I cracked the code. Be grateful and happy hunting.

Oh, and handjobs? Don't do it, ladies. It's a code you're rarely ever gonna crack.

That's why God gave women lips.

(I know, I know, you thought they were for talking. Sorry, ladies.)

I'm no fancy meteorologist with a degree from a community college, but the cross-continental air currents seemed as confused as the people. For most of the journey, the plane pitched and shimmied like a space shuttle bursting through layers of atmosphere in a Michael Bay movie. I couldn't help but think that our bumpy ride was a reflection of the turbulent terrain beneath us. The bubbling cauldron of anger and political unrest seemed to agitate the air above it, and we, as working guests, had to fly right through. Stupid theory? Maybe... but has anyone ever experienced turbulence over Switzerland? I'm unconvinced.

The flying waitresses walked around with plastered smiles like it was 'Turbulent Tuesday' at Bennigans, but I was once again utterly convinced I would die a fiery death. To stave off my imminent demise, I turned and lifted my hips depending on how we careened in order to help steer the plane. Although I'm sure my Martin Short Ed Grimley impression (FUCK YOU! I'm not old!!) was effectively the only reason we didn't skid into a field of farming negroes, I also -- as a back up -- used my psychic voodoo brain waves to keep the plane aloft. Even Jamie Kennedy, very much used to my "fagolic" in-flight behavior, leaned in towards me and said, "Okay, we're probably going down. Before we do, just admit that I can get more girls than you."

"You only get more girls than me because people think you're Seth Green," I quipped back, a lonely bead of sweat swelling on my brow before falling and shattering on my rigid forearm.

In generalized moments of terror like this, my life... lollygags in front of my eyes. The discrepancy between what I want and where I'm at suddenly and sharply comes into stark relief, as if to say 'Ta da? Really Bill? That's what you brought to the table?' I always extrapolate into the aftermath of my demise, picturing the front page of the paper saying:

"JAMIE KENNEDY AND UNKNOWN COMIC DIE IN EXTRA FIERY AND INORDINATELY LONG SPIRALLING PLANE CRASH FULL OF SCREAMING BABIES!"

I try to short circuit these morbid fantasies by redoubling the quickness of my hip movements in my seat and the strength of my psychic voodoo brain waves. After all, I want an obit with a fuckin' picture next to it at least when I die! I need to book at least a CSI or two, even a syndicated reality show; something that would hypothetically earn that type of posthumous treatment. Maybe one great supporting role *coughcough* in one great independent feature film, who knows? Whatever the formula for New York Times canonization and semi-immortality is, I want the variables from my life to plug in and work. I just really don't want to be a footnote to a footnote when I die.

"Don't hide under that cap. We all know it's eeeeew, Jamie!" Hahahaha. Jovial fun. You got him! But he wouldn't stop the name drop, clearly experiencing a couple puckers of the asshole with each refrain. "Hey, Jamie, would you like some planters, eh?" "Hey Jamie how about some coffee, Jamie?" "Jamie Jamie Jamie would you care to Jamie Jamie Jamie, eh?"

On our descent into Durban, the third largest city in South Africa, I was struck dumb by the beauty of the country. To that point, the only images of Africa clear and present in my mind involved machetes, riots, machine gun fire, desert, pot-bellied babies, and rich arrogant white men in speedos sunning themselves in poolside Adirondack chairs. I wasn't prepared for how breathtaking the landscape was. I stared out my oval fishbowl window with wonder at the picturesque and pastoral city, its subtle hills and square taupe buildings framed by a hem of frothy white break, crisply delineating the continent's coast.

As we left the airport and pulled onto the highway, this new world seemed to unfold in front of us like a map. We were now zipping down broad, lightly trafficked asphalt, flanked by blurred images of black men on the dappled stone shoulders, distant and dilapidated farmhouses, and fields -- impossibly green, impossibly vast. It seemed to me inconceivable to spend a minute in Africa without sensing its fertility, the womb-like richness and intensity of the land. You have only to look at the darkness of the people and the luxurious palette of natural colors to realize you are at ground zero of the human race. It made me think, "Shit, if I were another planet, I think I'd like to fuck the Earth."

The first order of business before going to our hotel was something that is the bane of the comic's existence: the morning radio show.

First of all, just as a Public Service Announcement, comics HATE doing these "morning zoo" shows with a passion bordering on fundamentalist Islamic zealotry. Initially, I could never comprehend why so many comics refused to do shows, picked fights with radio hosts, got banned, and/or spoke about the process like they were being gang-raped by the Pittsburgh Steelers offensive line. After suffering through my first one, I thought, "Ahhh, I get it now!"

There is no better visual demonstration of this hatred than the clips on Youtube of Tracy Morgan doing local TV and radio spots in towns in which he's headlining. He is clearly so fucking annoyed at having to beg people to care enough to buy tickets, the only thing he can do to stave off his middle of the road quasi-stardom ennui is to take off his shirt and hump furniture. He often warns the listening audience: "Somebody getting pregnant tonight! Somebody getting pregnant!" And, once in a blue moon, if he's feeling especially romantic, he will (allegedly) commit a little sexual assault on an intern, sometimes while using this classic line: "Girl, I wanna play wit your spincter (sic)." In his defense, the Youtube clips are hilarious. And no, they are NOT of him fondling 'spincters.'

On the other side of the equation, all radio DJ's are utterly convinced that, at the very least, they should be hosting their own show on E! entertainment television. Hey, it's nice to have goals, but if you've never had the privilege of sitting around a radio station, the first thing of note is an almost instant appreciation for the phrase 'face for radio.'

Most of the hosts are/were smokers/heroin junkies with pock-marked cinder block faces; the only redeeming quality, of course, being the corresponding napalm-Nam gravel in their voice. If they didn't hit every branch on their tortuous fall down the ugly tree, then it looks like they ate the tree, i.e., they're obese. If, miraculously, they are neither, then they are old, delusional, or out of their flipping skeleton. That explains (part of) the reason why old guard radio people hate Ryan Seacrest so much. He's a young, handsome-enough-to-be-homosexual man, who not only works in radio but is also one of the most popular radio AND television hosts ever. His mere existence is a slap in the glazed donut DJ face of the status quo and, furthermore, a glitch in the Matrix. A glitch in the Matrix? Does that mean Ryan Seacrest is "the one?"

Anygay, the problema mejore is that NOBODY thinks they need to/deserve to be there at 6:30am acting all atwitter about someone/something they could give less than a day-old dingleberry about. The depressive mood is pervasive: The interns think they should be DJs. The DJs think they should be in bigger markets. And the comics being interviewed think "Chris Rock doesn't have to do this bullshit!" It is a miserable, toxic environment. It is the entertainment industry's Three Mile Island.

We sat in the lobby of the radio station as sundry men and women came up and genuflected to Jamie, who introduced me to everyone as "Bill, my opener." They looked at me with that confusion of pity, encouragement, and indifference. The look you might give to a homeless person at the 7-11 scratching off a lottery ticket. "Ahhh, isn't that so tragically pathetic and cute at the same time? I'm going to smile at him which will earn me enough karmic credit to have anal tonight!"

Now don't me wrong. I love opening for Jamie. It's a great gig. I travel all over the world; I get most (not all) of the perks without any of the responsibility. If I suck, Jamie comes off as a great comic; if I kill, I steal the show. Plus free booze.

On the flip side, sometimes it sucks being treated like a lackey by the people around me. And there is not a better illustration of this than doing the radio show as an "opener." Most of the time, you sit on a stool ignored by everyone at the station until the headliner, very graciously, says, "Yo, this is blahblahblah, my opener. Get on headset blahblahblah." And then you feel like an obsequious asshole with nothing to say.

When that happened with both Jo Koy and Jamie Kennedy, I thought it was a testament to their generosity but, after a few of them, I realized that it was just a ploy so I could share their misery.

"Hey, Mr. Opener! You a funny guy?! Say something funny!" DJ DURBAN half-shouted in his pebbly velvet chord.

Ahhh, yes: "Say something funny!" The most annoying directive of all-time.

This goateed mess had one of those typical morning zoo, let's play a kazoo voices - the type of put-on voice that was trying to say, "Yeah, I have a secret, I party, and get laid a lot and never have anything to worry about other than a continuous life of wacky antics, phone pranks, and giveaways!"

I deadpanned, "Gazebo," a word that, you must admit, is pretty fucking funny.

He didn't get it.

Jamie look at me as if to say, "I should have known better."

"SO JAMIE HOW YOU DOIN' BROTHER! HOW YOU ENJOYING SOUTH AFRICA! FIRST TIME YOU BEEN HERE, MY MAN?"

I guess he didn't want to discuss "gazebo" and similarly phonetically funny words like "moist" and "squad."

Sometimes people think Jamie is stoned because he acts... stoned. But he's not, he's just pretty mellow most of the time.

Watching and listening to the decibel discrepancy between the wacky morning zoo dude and Jamie is always pretty fucking hee to the larious. "No, I've never been here before. It's nice, the people are really nice." It was like he was doing his best impression of a pre-temper tantrum John Malkovich.

For me, it was like watching a tennis match between a hyperactive kid who's trying too hard and a wall.

Morning zoo erupted, "YEAH, GREAT PEOPLE! GREAT PEOPLE! YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO PARTY WITH US! THINGS GET KIND OF CRAZZZZZZZZZZZZZY DOWN HERE IN DURBANNNNNN!" Damn, where was that kazoo sound?!

The interview went on in much the same vein for about 20 minutes. Jamie asked me a question or two to get me involved but I had nothing that topped "gazebo." It was like pulling teeth... if the teeth had been forcibly lodged in your asshole. I wanted to defrock, fuck furniture, and threaten the town with multiple impregnations.

Jamie took calls and, of course, someone wanted him to do the traffic rap from "Malibu's Most Wanted." Of course Jamie obliged, how could he not: "Traffic, traffic, looking for my chapstick, feeling kinda carsick, is that a Ford Maverick?" I looked at Jamie and repeated a silent mantra for him, for me, for us, for the world: "don't become pauly shoredon't become pauly shoredon't become pauly shore."

Bells, whistles, and of course kazoos went off in celebration and the woman won free tickets to the show. She was coming with her daughter.

Afterwards, an agro Indian DJ approached Jamie to have him sign his wall, which he did happily. The DJ invited Jamie to come to his comedy show, insisting it was the best comedy show in town and the comics here were much better than the ones in the states. He then went on to say that Russell Peters was a "fucking asshole" when he came to the station. Jamie wanted to shake hands and skedaddle, but, alas, we had finally hit upon something that interested me: hearsay and shit talking.

"Why was he an asshole?" I asked.

"He just was, dude. He had this big fucking entourage of like 5 people and acted like he was better than me."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I asked him to do like 5 minutes on his show and he said 'no' and kind of laughed about it."

Ahhhh, the truth. I circled the shark cage. "Jamie, you gonna give him 5 or are you gonna be an asshole?"

"Not my call, although he can take your spot if you want" was the quick retort.

Touche.

Aggressive Indian DJ spouted more theories about who was a dick and/or untalented, mentioned how he was going to be bigger than that "shitty Russell Peters" and sort of stalkerishly stared us down as we walked out, exchanging pleasantries all the while.

Jamie walked out and used the ubiquitous Bud light phrase to sum up the intensity of what just happened:

"Dude."

Finally, we could get to the hotel. And my view from the suite was re-dic. I was on the 14th floor overlooking the rip-tiding and frothy southern coast of South Africa. Floor to ceiling windows. King size bed. Cathode ray tube TV (come on, it's still a third world country, people). It was beautiful. It made me want to fuck something -- Anything. The maid. The first person that came in the room - or take a dump, the splashy dump of a wealthy man. Something about the trappings of luxury and lonely hotel rooms simultaneously relaxes my bowels and stiffens my white trash turkeyneck (yes, a word for penis. Learn it. Love it).

Outside the window, I could see the chairs being set up at the venue. The venue was literally on the beach. The waves were crashing about 40 feet away from the closest side of the stage. Maybe 1000 chairs were set out.

I started pacing around in the robe that I was inevitably going to steal as I looked down. People were already beginning to take their seats, two hours 'til showtime.

I'm often asked if I get nervous before I go onstage and I never feel like I've adequately described what it is for me. I feel like it's a fight. I probably feel similar to some of the people in the UFC before they're about to enter the octagon. Yes, it's fun. Yes, I love being up there. But, fuck, I got something to prove. I want to shock the world. I want people to love me, to hate me, to feel something. When I'm 'killing,' I want to give the sky double fingers -- like fighter Nate Diaz did recently at a UFC event when he knew he had a triangle choke sunk in on his opponent's neck; the announcers were confused who or what he was flicking off, but I knew. The options are only "kill" or "die" on stage. Those are the words that are used and they are apt. I jumped up and down. I stretched. I smiled, but I was serious enough to slit a throat.

In two hours, a thousand strangers in a bizarre new land were going to soberly watch me and decide if I was worth their laughter. Possibly, it would be my last show in South Africa, according to the venue directors in Johannesburg who warned that I might get kicked offstage again. Duncan informed me that, well, the possibility did exist for that, and that would mean I would probably have to sit out Capetown.

But, hell, people... I wasn't nervous.

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.

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.

I will add a 'clue' to make it a little more fair. I mean, who wants the house to win?

The clue is: White South Africans are inherently, intrinsically, and unequivocally racist. Whites are (for the most part) the only people in Jo-burg with disposable income. You need to have income to see a comedy show. That's like a syllogism or something... Hehe, I said gism.

And for those coming over from the message board, ONE of those fifteen jokes I wrote down on a notepad but have never had the balls to say.

Remember -- Two of those jokes were cited by the ladies when they kicked me off stage. One of them i didn't have the cojones to attempt. And the others, surprisingly, were met with a fair amount of yuk-yuks (that is how South Africans laugh, in 'yuk-yuk' form).

The winner gets free admission and drinks for ANY show in which I'm performing . I might even spring for top shelf liquor if you win and can make it out to one of my shows with Jamie Kennedy at the DOWNTOWN COMEDY CLUB IN LOS ANGELES ON MARCH 14TH AND MARCH 15TH!