When the Axis of Evil Comedy Tour special came out on Comedy Central, we began getting e-mails from around the country. This was in early 2007, and our YouTube comedy videos were becoming popular. I knew things were getting hot when I kept getting my own clips e-mailed to me more times than I cared to. I was getting fed up—with myself: “Doesn’t this guy have any new material? ‘Persian, like the cat, meow!’ I get it. Now write some new stuff.” Critics aside, people were beginning to know us. Some congratulated us. Some asked when we would be performing near their hometowns. Others just assumed we were al-Qaeda operatives using YouTube to disseminate our propaganda.
If I had been asked where I thought we might be performing outside the United States a year after the special aired, I would have responded England, Canada, Australia—any English-speaking country. I never in a thousand years would have said Jordan. Yet as we began to grow in popularity, that very call arrived.
“Hello. Yes. We would like to have you come do your show in Jordan.”
“Oh, well, thank you very much for the invitation, bro,” I responded. “But our shows are actually in English, so I’m not sure you guys would get it.”
“But I’m speaking English to you right now, you idiot.”
“Um, yeah, that’s a good point.”
I was guilty of stereotyping an entire nation. Many of the people in the Middle East speak English very well and know our culture in great depth. The rest of the world knows a lot more about America than Americans know about the rest of the world. In Jordan, you can do a joke about Lindsay Lohan and they’ll get it: “Oh, that Lindsay . . . always in the rehab!” They know all our pop culture references, whereas some people in the United States couldn’t even name all the different countries in the Middle East. (But they can name all our drug-addicted starlets.) I’ve heard people say we should just “bomb the whole goddamned region.” You tell them that there’s different countries out there and they stare at you blankly. You have to wonder how many Americans were dropped on their heads at birth. Either that or they’ve watched too much Fox News, which is the adult version of being dropped on your head.
The King and I
Once it was confirmed we were going to Jordan to do a show, I received the highest-ranking correspondence of my life. One day, while checking my e-mail, I clicked on something from the Office of His Majesty, King Abdullah II of Jordan. Normally when you get an e-mail from someone named “His Majesty,” it’s asking you to send him your bank account information so he can wire you millions of dollars he intends to share with you when he leaves his poverty-stricken country for a bright future in America. At first I assumed it was a scam. Adding to my doubts was the brevity of the note: His Majesty, the e-mail said, wished to have my mailing address. Things moved quickly from doubt to worry.
“Oh shit. Now I’ve pissed off the king of Jordan. And he’s coming to get me!”
These Arabs don’t mess around. I sat sifting through my old material, trying to figure out which joke he’d taken offense to. Was it the one where I made fun of how Arabs talk fast, as if they’re perpetually on cocaine? Why did they need my mailing address? Did they really think I’d just give it to them? How stupid was their intelligence service?
“Yes, hello, we would like to kill you. Can you please give us your address so we know where to find you?”
I wasn’t falling for that one. You’ve got to get up pretty early in the morning to trick this Iranian-American comedian. Like any good spy with a hit out on him, I did my research to see what this was all about. I felt like Jason Bourne in The Bourne Identity trying to determine who the good guys were and who the bad guys were. No one was to be trusted. I contacted the other Axis of Evil comedians to bend their ears, but I had to be careful. For all I knew, they could be in on “the plot”—double-secret-agent comedians. I broached the topic carefully.
“Hey, it’s Maz. Just calling to say hello. Has anything weird happened to you lately?”
“Weird! I’ll tell you what’s weird,” one of the panicked comedians shout-whispered into the phone. It sounded as though he hadn’t slept in days. “I got an e-mail from the king of Jordan asking for my mailing address! I think he’s trying to kill me!”
Now we both were panicked. This was a bigger conspiracy than I originally thought. Turns out we had all gotten the same e-mail. It appeared that the Jordanians planned to take out all four of us before the Axis of Evil Comedy Tour really got its momentum going. Just like the president and vice president, it was imperative—for the future of comedy, as well as our own lives—that we not appear in the same place at the same time, lest we make it easy on the assassins. We had to think quickly. How were we going to dodge this? Should we just pack our bags and move to Brazil without even saying anything to our families or booking agents? Should we rename the tour and try to keep touring under the radar? The Axis of Not So Evil Comedy Tour? The Kinder Gentler Axis of Evil Comedy Tour? Or The Don’t Shoot Us, We’re Just Comedians Tour? Whatever we were going to do we had to decide fast because His Majesty was waiting for our reply. I’m fairly certain that if you take too long to reply to someone named His Majesty, that will just make the impending death that much more violent.
We were nervous. We were scared. We came up with a plan that only dumb comedians thinking the king of Jordan has time to assassinate them would contrive. Ahmed Ahmed, the Egyptian of the group, had a P.O. box. Apparently he’d had other kings come after him in the past, so he was better prepared than the rest of us.
“Let’s give the king of Jordan that address,” I suggested. “That way, if he wants to mail us a bomb, he’ll just kill the mailbox guy.”
Ahmed sent them his P.O. box address. A few days later, we received letters on His Majesty’s official letterhead. The gist of it was, “I saw your Axis of Evil comedy special and really enjoyed it. Thank you for doing what you’re doing. It is helping break stereotypes of Middle Easterners in the West.”
I was in shock. Was this all part of a more diabolical plot? Was he trying to trick us into letting down our guard before coming after us? Upon conferring with the other Axis guys, we concluded—not just because it was true, but also because the stress of being hunted was taking its toll—that this was actually a very nice and sincere letter from the king of Jordan. It was the most amazing letter I had ever gotten. And to think my mother wanted me to be a lawyer. Hah! If I had been a lawyer I never would have gotten a letter from a king! Maybe a magistrate, but who wants a letter from a magistrate? What the hell is a magistrate anyway? Try explaining that term to my mom. “You got letter from a magistrate? Is that a magician who is eh-straight? I thought all magicians vere gay!”
Of course, one of the first people I told about the letter was my mom. Telling your Iranian mother that a king has written a personal letter to you saying that he enjoys your comedy is one of the best ways to finally get her off your back and accept that you have made the right career choice. That said, never underestimate a Persian mother’s persistence.
“Mom, guess what? I just got a letter from the king of Jordan. He loves my comedy.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Dat’s nice.”
“That’s nice?”
“Vhat else did he say?”
“Nothing. Just that he saw it on DVD and enjoyed it.”
“So nothing else came in deh letter?”
“What else should have come in the letter?”
“He is a king. Gold? Cash? A virgin?”
“No gold, no cash, no virgins.”
“Vhat kind of king is he? Tell me vhen deh king of Kuwait writes you. He vill definitely send a virgin. Perobably vearing gold and carrying cash.”
People wouldn’t know this, but the king of Jordan is actually a really cool dude. He was educated in the West and is very big on showing a positive image of Middle Easterners, Arabs, and Muslims throughout the world. He is also a fan of Western film and TV. As a matter of fact, he was an extra in an episode of Star Trek a while back. You can find the clip on YouTube. Just enter “king of Jordan Star Trek.” He’s the guy in the background as the scene begins. That’s right—the king of Jordan is a Trekkie! How many other kings do you know who are Trekkies? I can see him attending a Star Trek convention and mingling with the other Trekkies.
“I see your name tag says ‘king of Jordan,’ ” someone might say, and then very dramatically add: “I, too, am a king. The king of Planet Barzan.”
“No, I’m actually the real king of Jordan.”
“And I am the real king of Planet Barzan.”
“Yes, but your planet is fictional. I’m king of a real country on Planet Earth.”
“Greetings, earthling!”
“I’m not just an average earthling. I’m a king.”
“I, too, am a king. King of the Planet Barzan!”
“Maybe I’ll just go switch my nametag to something else.”
The Jordanian Distribution Deal
When we arrived in Jordan, the promoters told us that the shows were sold out. Amman is a bustling city with a good mix of East and West. It has some great restaurants and nightclubs, as well as some historical sites. Parts of the city are built vertically, and one of my favorite activities was sitting at an outdoor café, overlooking the city, and sipping tea while the afternoon call to prayer went out. It was awe inspiring and somehow soothing. If only Fox News cameras could have seen me then. They would probably report me as a terrorist taking a break from his daily terrorist activities and sipping on peppermint terrorist tea. It’s all about perspective, I guess.
I was surprised that the shows were all sold out so far in advance. This was the first time we were in the region, and I had no idea enough people even knew who we were to sell ten seats. I asked the promoter how it happened.
“Have that many people seen us online?”
“Oh no, Maz, most people have seen the actual DVD.”
“I didn’t know we had a distribution deal in Jordan.”
“Of course you do. One person bought it and everyone saw it. It’s called a Jordanian distribution deal. Also known as a bootleg.”
It’s amazing how pervasive bootlegging is in the Middle East. There’s a reason why they know so much about American culture. We actually visited a store in the center of Amman that was all bootlegs and nobody seemed to care. Whereas in the United States the guys selling bootlegs have to sell on bedsheets on street corners so they can quickly pack up and outrun police, this guy had an official store. He had bootlegs of every American film and TV program ever made. If you wanted Seinfeld, he had it. If you wanted The Fast and the Furious, he had all 243 installments of the franchise. Even if you wanted a TV series that had been canceled years ago, it was there. At the time he had our Axis of Evil DVD displayed prominently in the front of the store. When he first saw us coming in, he freaked out because he thought we would be upset. But I was flattered that the guy had bootlegged us. To be on Comedy Central was one thing. But to be robbed by a Jordanian bootlegger meant we’d really arrived. I walked up to the guy, gave him a hug, and thanked him. Then I asked him how much our masterpiece cost.
“A dollar.”
“Just one dollar? Are you kidding me?”
“Fine, give me fifty cents. You got a deal, my friend.”
“No, I’m not trying to buy it.”
“Then why are you asking the price?”
“I’m just saying—it’s kind of a hit. Don’t you think you could get a little more money for it? How about two dollars?”
“Two dollars? Who do you think you are? The Fast and the Furious?”
The King Arriveth
Something special happened in Amman. We got a message from the king’s people that he might be attending a show. Of course, we were nervous he would end up flaking out at the last minute. After all, he’s the king of a country. He must have more important things to do than attend a comedy show. And yet, the night before the show we got a message that a “special guest” would be there and that no filming would be permitted. It was official—the king of Jordan, His Majesty, would be coming to see us perform live.
I was excited and nervous at the same time. What if he came and I had a bad set? Bombing in front of a crowd of drunk tourists at one o’clock in the morning was one thing, but bombing in front of a king was a whole different demoralizing matter. How would I ever recover from something like that? Would they even allow me back into Jordan if I had a bad set? It’s amazing how a comedian’s mind works. No matter how long we’ve been doing it or how good we get, when we are faced with big shows we have a fear something will go wrong. The key is after years of doing it, you learn to lower the stakes and just have fun. If the crowd doesn’t get your humor then you break from your set and do crowd work. If they still don’t give you any love, then you barrel through the set and grab a drink afterward. No matter what happens, the clock keeps ticking and after twenty or thirty minutes you’ll be offstage and life goes on.
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.
“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.
“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?”
“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.
Indiana Jones and the Temple of Bootleg
Another cool site I visited was Petra, which was recently chosen one of the New Wonders of the World. Petra is truly amazing because it was built thousands of years ago, long before they had the technology that we do. Yet they created these awe-inspiring carvings in stone that run throughout the city. Anyone who goes to Jordan should make the trip to Petra. It will put your life in perspective. That said, be prepared to be peddled tons of Indiana Jones crap, since that’s where they shot one of the films. No matter where you go, it’s good to know that American capitalism will find you. In the middle of an ancient city built thousands of years ago, surrounded by Bedouins who are indigenous to the region, you will hear them calling, “Indy! Indy! You want buy Indiana Jones hat?” And if you say no, they persist. “Come, my friend. For you I give discount.”
Another attraction in Petra were the donkeys and camels you could get on and take pictures with. My whole life I’ve been running from stereotypes like “towel head” and “camel jockey,” and yet, when faced with the opportunity to wrap a keffiyeh around my head and get on a camel, I jumped. I don’t know what it is, but when you’re a tourist you just act like a tourist. I wonder if that happens to everyone no matter how cool they are? When George Clooney goes to the Leaning Tower of Pisa, does he take a picture where it looks like he’s the one holding up the tower? Whatever it was, I couldn’t resist. Now I have a picture of me being a towel head and a camel jockey at the same time. If they had offered me a bazooka to hold over one shoulder, I probably would have hoisted that up, too. Come to think of it, I could use some new headshots.
As we left Petra, we noticed a group of young Jordanians walking in the opposite direction holding their skateboards. We passed them and heard, “Maz Jobrani! Persian cat! Meow!” They were quoting my jokes. In the depths of that ancient city, I, Maz Jobrani, had been recognized. My comedy had finally made a mark.
“Did you see me on YouTube?” I asked.
“Nah. Bootleg DVD, one dollar.”