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)

*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 third installment in what will be a series of educational pieces about my experiences in the Holy Land. The following report includes absolutely no fabrication or embellishment…

Marhaba.
I now live in the West Bank city of Ramallah, which is Arabic for “Holy Shit!” My colleagues and I arrived in the city yesterday and were eventually dropped off at what will be our home for the next five weeks, which is located in the neighborhood of Masayef (Motto: “I hope you like spiders”).

A fun game we found to play here in the West Bank is called “Will It Stop?” To play, cross the street assuming that traffic will follow the standard protocol of yielding to pedestrians (it usually does). Then, about 1 out of every 10 times, a car flies past you at about 70 KPH, which in ‘Murican units is slightly more than 490 MPH. This helps keep you on your toes, as it can be all too easy to lull yourself into a false sense of security when you are constantly seeing civilians strapped with large weapons in public… (Does the grocery store really need a sign reading, “No guns” with an image of a rifle behind a red circle with a line through it?)

Since there are four of us in the apartment and only three bedrooms, we had to find an equitable way to divide the living quarters. After narrowly deciding against a drunken throat-punching competition, we settled on drawing crumpled-up pieces of paper from a cooking pot, all the while making sure to document the event in video form on the digital camera of the group’s designated “Numba One Stunna,” Tatsuaki Tomiyama (See photo #1 – And yes, we’re watching Middle Eastern rallying on TV).

As expected, I won easily (I have always been good at picking pieces of paper out of containers – I even have that skill listed on my résumé). My housemate/co-worker/suave Italian friend, Salvatore, however, was lucky enough to draw the only room with adult-themed bedding (Please see photo #2). In other news, our apartment has metal blinds, bars on the windows, 878 TV channels (seriously), and no shower curtain.

As far as transportation is concerned, a taxi to the center of town costs exactly 1.5 NIS (New Israeli Shekels), roughly equivalent to 40 cents. And before you ask, the answer is yes, the Palestinians LOVE using the currency of their occupiers.

Ahmad, our “man on the ground,” hooks us up here with anything we need. As an added benefit, he’s a badass. He once kicked a guy in the balls so hard that he destroyed his left testicle (to the point that it had to be removed). The man told Ahmad that if his chances of having a son were ruined, he would kill him. To which Ahmad responded, ”I still have two balls, so I can get you a son.” Well, the man did eventually have a son, but it was unclear from the story if he was actually the father of the child…

I work for the Palestinian Authority’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which, by the way, is slightly different than its Israeli counterpart. There, you go through a 45-minute screening process that includes a complete physical (with urinalysis), a Rorschach test, and a process where you donate one kidney as collateral for the receipt of an official visitor’s badge. Here, the only time you get turned away is if you forgot your Kalashnikov at home.

Apparently, my work will consist of repeatedly trying to establish an Internet connection. On the first day, after 27 attempts to fix the set-up & configuration issues, we still hadn’t made any progress. By the time it was one o’clock, I had completed exactly zero hours of real work.

My supervisor, Omar (who, apparently by some mistake, is not named Ahmad), was looking very anxious at that point because we were approaching the deadline for writing several reports that had to be delivered to the Deputy Foreign Minister. After speaking with the 17^th computer technician of the day, Omar, whose demeanor had become very serious, proclaimed, “OK, as soon as we get this computer problem solved we will…meet a few more people and then have some tea.”

In a related story, I am now completing my daily work assignments at home.

I have to go now because I am experiencing a dust storm inside my office (Think: motorbike race scene in “Fear and Loathing.”)

Kshhhht. Over and out. Kshhhht. (That’s supposed to be the sound made by walkie-talkies. Shut up.)

*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 second installment of what will be a series of educational pieces about my experiences in the Holy Land.

Shalom again, faithful Schitthaus.com readers. As of now I am still operating out of the holy city of Jerusalem where, incidentally, no one knows who or what a “the Damaja” is. But that, of course, is their loss. Fortunately, they also know nothing about the Baltimore Orioles.

So yesterday, some of my colleagues and I decided to sample more of the city’s nightlife as soon as we realized that we had been sober all afternoon. Going on the recommendation of some random guy, we agreed to patronize a bar called “The Blue Hole.” If you are thinking that nothing good can come from a bar by this name, you are right. Our ride of choice, by the way, was a sleek, new Mercedes-Benz taxi, but apparently, women here only want you if you actually OWN an expensive vehicle and not if you are whistling out of the left-rear window while riding bitch.

When we reached our destination, we realized that the menu consisted solely of drinks with names (in English) so corny that I cannot bring myself to repeat them here. When we then tried to order said drinks, the waitress could not even understand what we were saying despite the fact that 1) there weren’t very many on the menu from which to choose and 2) she appeared as though she were capable of simultaneously remembering the names of more than three objects.

I, however, being much too macho to order such a beverage, cleverly avoided the situation by asking for a Gin & Tonic (yes, I capitalize the names of drinks – respect), convinced that I now had the upper hand in the drink-ordering war. To my surprise, she outflanked me by bringing me a glass of gin and a separate glass of tonic (both of which were only partially-filled and were not even close to being in proper proportion to one another). But, while I did not win the battle that evening, I did not lose either. One of our female friends ordered what should have been known as a Long Island Iced Tea, which as it turned out, tasted like total ass.

Today we left the Eastside Jerusalem Massive (represent) to travel to Ramallah in the West Bank by way of the Qalandiya checkpoint (Motto: “Dark-skinned people need not apply”). One of the reasons for this trip was to visit to one of the Palestinian refugee camps in the area.
Upon arrival to the camp, we were immediately mobbed by a battalion of shifty Palestinian children, who according to my expert analysis all had ADHD “something ridiculous.” They robbed us of every last Dum-Dum and Blow-Pop we had. I was convinced that as soon as I confessed to be out of candy, they would rain down (or up?) a barrage of swift kicks to my bo-sack, but instead, they seemed mesmerized by my rugged good looks. Sensing an opportunity, I quickly took advantage of their trance-like state to snap a few photographs. As you can clearly see, I had managed to stumble upon the elusive Ra-mullet in its natural habitat. I sincerely hope this makes up for the lack of photographic evidence in the last report.

Judging by the position of the sun in the sky, it is now nighttime. As I write this, I am surveying Israeli television (yes, it sucks, too) that currently includes what appears to be a game of 2 on 2 soccer-volleyball played on a miniature court in front of trashy and uninterested Israeli teenagers. The broadcast is in very loud Spanish with Hebrew subtitles and may or may not involve Maradonna. I am now sorry to report that there is no chance for Middle East peace.

*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 article is the first in what will be a series of educational pieces about the Holy Land.

Shalom. (For those of you that aren’t familiar with the Hebrew tongue, the word is loosely translated thusly: “Eat shit.” Needless to say, I use it as often as I can.)

Well, let me say that my journey got off to an inauspicious start. While I was extremely excited to get to Israel, my luggage was having second thoughts and decided to stay at the airport in New York. All I have with me now are sunglasses and a passport. But then again, what else could anyone possibly need? In a related story, I shaved this morning with a sharp rock that I found in the parking lot.

And while El Al Airlines (whose motto is “Spread ‘Em!”) provided me with a complimentary bag of toiletries, it included neither a banana hammock nor a chest hair comb, arguably the two most critical accessories when traveling abroad. Sorry ladies, the rug might be a bit unruly for the next few days.

So, what do you do when you arrive to one of the holiest cities in the world? Head straight to the bar, of course. It didn’t take us long to find the hotel bar where we were greeted by Jamal (the bartender), Mimi (his assistant), and free shots of Jamison (that’s alcohol, jackass). Jamal is now my main man. Before we began drinking, though, we felt that it would be appropriate to reflect on some of the finer aspects of the city of Jerusalem, which is to be my temporary home for the next week. As it is his hometown, Jamal was more than happy to offer his thoughts on the subject. “Jerusalem has so much history, so much religion, and so much…fucking prostitution.” Well said.

The next day I had my first Arab mullet sighting while driving through East Jerusalem. Maybe it was just the fact that I was in the Holy Land, but I felt blessed. I have yet to see a Jewish mullet, but the back hair I have been witnessing is definitely screaming “party!”

Next on the itinerary was a lovely drive to the famed plateau at Masada, the site of the first rave party in 23 B.C.E. Back then of course, there were no glowsticks so the douchebags used wax candles and the girls ate small rocks instead of ecstacy pills and they all danced like complete tools until they had to get back to whatever they did before Xbox 360 was invented. Incidentally, I learned these fun facts from a short film (which, believe it or not, is not in danger of winning any Oscars) named “Masada: The True Story.”

Finally, the day was capped by taking a dip in the Dead Sea, which is named after Steve Dead, the first man to pee at the lowest point on Earth. Big ups, Steve.

Well folks, it’s time to go try and work some game, which will probably go something like this, ”Hey girl, I’ve been wearing the same pair of boxers for three days.” So, shalom, you yutches.