I'm Not a Terrorist, But I've Played One on TV (18 page)

All this is much easier said than done, especially when you have a king in your audience. For some reason I kept imagining a firing squad. And you can't really enjoy a drink if you've got a bunch of holes in your body.

I kept convincing myself it was like any other show. Sure he's a king, but he's still a human being. He puts on his pants one leg at a time, just like everyone else. Although I'm sure he has someone else put his pants on for him, so maybe he's different in that way. But he wears pants, just like everyone else. Yet his pants are probably lined with gold, so okay, he's better in that way, too. The point is that he's a person. Yes, that's the point. He's a person with pants and there's nothing to fear. Except that he has an army, and they all have their own pants, too. And if he didn't like the jokes, he could order them to shoot me. My mother was right—I should've been a lawyer.

My nerves were getting to me. I was accustomed to being the closer on our tour, which meant I would always perform last.
Usually I would show up at the start of the show to wish the others good luck and then sit in the green room waiting my turn. This was difficult because I would amp up at the start of the show and then pace back and forth like a caged lion, waiting for my turn and losing patience. The night the king was coming, I didn't need this extra stress.

Just before the show was set to begin, I glanced out my hotel window to check on the crowds. The night before, there had been a long line of cars waiting to valet park. But that night, there were no cars. Instead there were soldiers who had closed the street down for the king's arrival. I tried to calm down and watch some TV, but as soon as I sat down there were sirens. A bunch of SUVs led by a police escort arrived at the venue: the king and his motorcade. Before the cars had even stopped, guys in secret service suits jumped out and began running up and down in front of the entrance. I was jumping up and down clapping from my hotel window. I had never had a motorcade come to my shows—I was a motorcade virgin! I felt like I was in an episode of
24
, and for once I wasn't the bad guy. My heart began pounding. The hair on my arms pricked up. What the hell was I doing still in my hotel room? I should be down there, kneeling on one knee and welcoming His Majesty.

By the time I arrived in the street, the king had already been whisked away to a private room. Only the soldiers with big guns were left, and it was clear they had no idea who I was. For all they knew, I was the guy trying to put a hit on the king, the reason they had to carry around those giant weapons. I wanted to put them at ease so they knew that I was not a threat. I figured I could tell them a joke, then they would set down their giant guns and we'd all have a laugh. Since they wouldn't understand English jokes, I attempted to break the ice with my broken Arabic.

“
Salaam alaikum, habibi.”

“What's up, bro?”

Holy shit! Even the soldiers spoke English! Are we the only dumb country that encourages our kids NOT to learn other languages? How was I going to speak behind these peoples' backs in front of their faces when they all spoke English so well? The Jordanians weren't making anything easy.

The King Sit Rule

I made my way to the green room and settled in. We had plenty of time to kill before our show started. The night before we had a violinist open for twenty minutes, which was a relaxing way to get in the zone. As I was getting comfortable the promoter came running into the green room.

“Where is Ahmed Ahmed? He is hosting the show, no?”

“Yes, he's hosting, but we still have the twenty minutes of the violinist before we start. He's not here yet. He should be here soon.”

“Tonight there will be no violinist! Tonight, the rule is, when the king sits, the show starts!”

“What!” I sprang to my feet. “No violinist?” This was shocking. “What kind of rule is that?”

Apparently it's a rule that dates back to the Roman times. When Caesar sat, the lions ate the gladiators. I always thought that the king would mingle a bit before the show, work the crowd, allow his handlers to get photos of him interacting with the commoners. Maybe have some popcorn, some Raisinets, answer some easy trivia questions displayed on the screen, and then we would start. But I guess it makes sense that they didn't want the king waiting
around. After all, he was the king. Of their country. He probably had other things to do than listen to a violin solo while waiting for comedians to tell jokes.

I asked what would happen if the king sat but then decided to stand up. Would we stop the show until he sat again? What if he had static cling on his pants and he kept getting up to straighten them out? What if he had to use the restroom?

“Stop making jokes,” the promoter explained to a roomful of comedians. “This is very serious. We have to get Ahmed here right now. The king is almost seated.”

The promoter was freaking out. Not only might he lose his job as a promoter if the king was made to wait, he might even be deported. This only made me more nervous. As I said, anytime a local gets nervous in a Middle Eastern country, that's when you should start getting nervous. Usually locals like to sit back and laugh at us Americans for being so scared of everything in the region. But when you see the promoter sweating and begging you to find the show's host, pronto, you know it's serious. We all went for our cell phones at once, placing calls to Ahmed to alert him to this new “King Sit” rule, only to discover that none of our phones worked. The king's security had blocked all cell phones so that no one could use a phone to detonate a bomb. This shit was getting real.

Now the race was on between the king sitting and Ahmed getting out of the shower. I and Aron Kader, the other comedian on tour, began to brainstorm. One of us could host and just bring Ahmed up when he arrived. We would just go on and do as much time as was needed until we had our third comic. It was a wild scramble, and the whole thing was falling apart when Ahmed strolled in, clueless about the mayhem.

“What's up, guys?”

“Where have you been? We're starting!”

“We still got the violinist, right?”

“Wrong!” I hollered, half crazed by now. “The show starts when the king sits!”

“I didn't know that.”

“Everyone knows that! It's the King Sit rule!”

Being thrown random King Sit rules before the show made the experience that much more nerve-wracking. We felt as if the rules could be changed at any moment. What if the king decided to do some jokes before the show?

“The king has decided he wants to go on and do five.”

“Oh come on. That's bullshit! I was getting ready to go on.”

“That's the rule. If the king wants to go on, he goes on. It's his country.”

And what if the king went on and ran longer than his allotted five minutes? “He's been up there twenty minutes, man! Give him the light! Give the king the light!”

Would you be allowed to tell the king that you didn't appreciate him taking extra time onstage? “Listen, bro, I know you're the king and all. But that wasn't cool what you did. I'm just telling you a lot of comics don't appreciate it.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't see the light.”

“That's bullshit, King. You saw the light.”

“I swear. I've never worked this room before.”

“Oh yeah? Then how come everyone here knows you?”

“Because I am the king.”

To our relief, Ahmed went on and the show proceeded without a glitch. This was during the Bush administration, and I had jokes about President Bush as well as the president of Iran, Mahmoud
Ahmadinejad. It's strange performing political material in front of a king because he really could try to do something about whatever issue you're joking about. Every time I would get to those jokes I made sure to look at him with the punch line. As if to say, “Dude, you can do something about this. These are suggestions.”

The show went so well that the king invited us to the palace the next day. He was very gracious and complimentary. We were excited to be there and we took pictures with everyone. It's not often you get to be in the palace of a king, so you want proof that you were there. We took pictures with the king, his secretary, some random dude who might have been a bodyguard or someone's brother. I wanted anything I could get my hands on to prove this was happening. I asked if they had mugs, key chains, maybe some gold. In the end we had to settle on the pictures as our only proof. I could anticipate my mom's reaction already: “You vent all deh vay to deh guy's palace and eh-still no gold?”

When I came back to the United States, I told everyone I met the king. People look at you differently when you tell them you've had a king at your show. Every comic has been on Comedy Central and
The Tonight Show
. Not every comic has performed in front of a king. Suddenly it became a credit.

“This next comedian has performed in front of the king of Jordan. Give it up for the king's good friend, Maz Jobrani.”

I even got another e-mail from the king's people: “Dear Maz, the king would like your phone number.”

The king's staff were masters of vague and curt e-mails. Being the paranoid comedian I am, my mind started racing again. Why did the king want my phone number? Did I say something to offend him? Does he want me to perform at his son's birthday? What if I perform and I bomb? He'll definitely have me killed
then. I knew this friendship with the king was going to end badly!

I sent my phone number and got an immediate response: “The king will call you tomorrow.”

What? Why does the king want to call me? Is there something we need to discuss? Can't he elaborate in these e-mails?

The next day the phone rang: “The king will call you in five minutes.”

It was the countdown to the king. I had no idea what the call was about, but I wanted to make sure no one called me on the other line. I quickly phoned my wife: “Don't call me in the next five minutes. The king of Jordan is calling.” Then I hung up on her. I figured this was covering all bases, but mostly I just wanted to brag that I would be having a conversation with a king. When you've been married for a few years sometimes you need a wingman to get your wife excited. What better wingman than the king of Jordan? I was definitely having sex at some point in the future based on this phone call.

For the next four minutes, I just sat and stared at my phone. Finally, it rang: “Please hold for the king of Jordan.”

What if he wanted me to become an ambassador? Or perhaps he was going to tell me, like in the olden days, that he was so enamored by my stage antics, he wanted me to follow him around telling jokes all day long, the official Jordanian jester. No sooner was I preparing my responses than a jovial, slightly British voice spoke.

“Hello Maz, how are you?”

“Great, sir. So nice to hear from you.”

“How are the boys?”

“They're fine. Busy doing shows. How can I help you?”

“Nothing. Just checking in.”

“Just checking in?” I asked. “That's it?”

“Yep, that's it. You take care now.”

As soon as he hung up I called my wife, excited.

“The king of Jordan just called to check in with ME!”

“And?”

“That's it!”

“No gold? No cash?”

“You been talking to my mom?”

“I just figured there might be something more, that's all.”

“Am I getting laid tonight?”

“Probably not.”

Heckled by Jesus

I've traveled to Jordan several times. It's a beautiful country. From Amman to the Dead Sea to Petra, there's so much to see and experience. One of the things I don't enjoy about Jordan, however, is the smoking. It seems like everyone smokes as though he's
trying
to get cancer. In America, we have the right to bear arms; in Jordan, they have the right to puff smokes. Either way, we all have the right to kill ourselves so at least we've got that in common. People in the West think war kills a lot of people in the Middle East, but in reality it's the smoking that does it. Why drop bombs when you can drop Marlboros?

To say that they smoke like chimneys is to not give them enough credit. They smoke more like industrial-waste plants. Maybe part of it has to do with their being surrounded by war all the time and using it to relieve stress. The biggest part of it, I think, is that the antismoking campaign that has occurred in the
West hasn't quite arrived in the Middle East yet. I am so used to smoking not being permitted in restaurants that when I end up in a country where they have smoking sections, I feel like I'm back in the eighties. No offense to smokers, but this whole idea of having a smoking section in any indoor space is the most ridiculous idea ever. It's not like the smoke stops at a certain border and the people in the nonsmoking section don't smell it. It's amazing how cigarette smoke can ruin a perfectly good Jordanian lunch. I think that there should be a rule that if smoking is allowed in a restaurant then you're allowed to go to the smoking section and fart at their tables. Enjoy the baba ghanoush! Smoking is so prevalent that you would think that every Jordanian is issued a carton of cigarettes when he turns fourteen. Chances are they're bootleg cigarettes, but they still stink nonetheless.

Some of the amazing places that we visited included the River Jordan, where John the Baptist allegedly baptized Jesus. As we approached I joked that maybe John didn't take Jesus in the water to baptize him, but rather he took him in there to wash out the cigarette smoke or give him a haircut. What if, in reality, John the Baptist was actually John the Barber? Think about it. It could be true! Why else would he take Jesus, who had long hair, into the water and dip his head in? I say he did it to give him a deep shampoo before giving him a cut.

In the middle of my sacrilegious joking, our tour manager, Candice, who was a practicing Christian, walked into the church that sat by the edge of the river where Jesus had been baptized. She went in to pray, and as she was praying she looked in her palms and saw blood. For an instant she thought it was stigmata, but it turned out to be a bloody nose. Still, that made me stop joking about Jesus. Maybe he really was baptized there and was sending
me a sign to stop making fun of him. Yes, I was heckled by Jesus Christ in Jordan.