Schitthaus.com

*The following is a special feature to Schitthaus.com by Middle East correspondent and all-around sweet dude, the Notorious G.I.P. This thoroughly researched and completely factual article is the fourth installment in what will be a series of educational pieces about his experiences in the Holy Land. (The following report includes absolutely no fabrication or embellishment.)

Greetings once again from Ramallah.

After quite a long day today, I am sitting in my bed enjoying a nice, cool glass of “Multi-vitamin Nectar” (I love this place). As I am writing this, my neighbors are firing celebratory AK-47 rounds in the air and I’m hoping they’ll land somewhere other than here (the rounds, not the neighbors). OK, without further ado, here’s the latest news:

It’s no Insult Master

I played an interesting video game today on a friend’s TV while waiting for the washing machine to break again. It was the familiar game where the player attempts to bounce a “ball” off of his moving “paddle” to destroy “bricks,” thereby earning “points” in hopes of impressing “girls.” In this version, however, an extra feature has been included: A pile of shit floats around taking smaller shits all over the bricks. I am serious. The big shit even closes its eyes each time it takes a dump. It was mad gross. I even took a picture because, yes, I am coordinated enough to simultaneously rule at video games AND take award-winning photographs.

All Jamal
As I mentioned in a previous report, there is a plethora of satellite television channels pumped into my apartment daily. I was flipping through the standard Arabic pop music and conservative Islamic phone-in shows when I spotted the channel that has single-handedly reversed my hatred of the television: The camel channel. It’s all camels, all day long. I’m not kidding. The camels just stand around, and occasionally, a man dressed in a robe and a keffiyeh walks up to them, gestures, and speaks a few words. From what I can decipher (using my dynamite Arabic skills), he typically says something like this, “This is a camel. I like camels.” Or sometimes he just stands there. That’s it.

Delicious!
I thought you would like to know that I have a new favorite beer, which is brewed right here in the West Bank by real West Bankers (Wankers, for short). The name? Taybeh. Is it the best-tasting beer in the world? Maybe not, but it’s pretty decent, plus it has this guy going for it, which is nice. If you’re still not convinced, read the following excerpt, taken word-for-word (or non-word, as the case may be) from the official Taybeh website:

“For peak flavor, store all beer away from heat and light . Heat, light, and age, are theenemies of all beer. Store in a cool dark place,and the use of a brown bottle will protect the beer from light Green bottle will protect the beer from light. Green bottles offer protection from light, as one minute of direct light can turn beer in a green bottle shunky in aroma and taste. Beer should be fresh, unlike wine, it deteriorates as soon as it is bottled. Most imported beer contains adjuncts and\or preservatives to preserve them for long ocean shipping. TAYBEH BEER is completely pure.”

You know, I could see myself staying here to launch a PR campaign against “shunky” beer (and maybe doing some freelancing as an editor).

Fan Mail

Normally, I receive entirely too much fan mail to read, but today I decided that I would open a few letters and share one of the many questions asked of me with you, the faithful Schitthaus.com readers. So, here it goes…

Krystal from Ranson, WV asks:

“i know you is cool & tough, but has you done been in any danjer over thur?”

The answer, Krystal, is no, although, the other night I did have a close call. It was about 2 o’clock in the A.M. and some of my associates and I were just leaving one of the popular social establishments in downtown Ramallah. As we stood outside, an acquaintance of ours generously offered to drive us back to our apartment. “Sounds good,” I said. But once we hopped in the back of his silver BMW, it was obvious that things were not right. Just then, the driver opened all of the windows, reached his hand toward the dashboard, and…began blasting some Michael Bolton ballads. We were so scared that we all made falafel in our trousers.

So let that be a lesson, kids (what the lesson is, I don’t know).

See you next time.
Love,

Gip (who ain’t no no-talent ass clown)