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FAMILY OR NOTHING
Rachid, stand by. Two minutes.
Thank you.
Montreal, make some noise!
Sit down!
What's up, Montreal?
Thank you for being here. Thank you so much!
Thanks, poor people up there.
I'm so happy.
You don't know how happy I am.
This is like receiving the college degree I never got.
This is Netflix, guys! Thank you!
I'm grateful just to be doing shows.
I'm not bullshitting you. It's completely genuine.
Not that long ago, I was doing shows
on Zoom in my room for plumbers from Pont-Viau.
5:00 p.m., "Hey, how's it going? We'll have a fun night together!"
"Show me your pecker!"
If you were able to be here tonight and celebrate comedy with me,
it means you're a survivor,
so give yourselves a round of applause, Montreal!
That wasn't sincere.
You don't know how much you've survived.
I don't mean only physically. I'm talking mentally, going through this.
Remember!
Imagine explaining the past three years to someone.
Imagine your best friend gets into a car accident right before that whole mess.
March 10, 2020.
Slams into a wall, slips into a coma and comes out of it…
yesterday!
And you're the dumbass at the hospital having to answer his first question.
"What did I miss?"
That's what you're asking? You're not hungry or anything?
What did you miss? How do I say this?
We'll start from the beginning, if you don't mind.
Remember when we were young and we played "Would You Rather?"
Remember?
Then I asked you, "Hey! Would you rather
starve to death or eat a bat?"
Remember?
Well, some moron ate one and now
there's a virus.
I…
That's what Google told me and I believed it.
One hell of a virus!
Everyone that caught it had serious rectal issues,
because Costco was out of toilet paper.
Hey!
Why did we buy so much?
You missed one hell of a virus. When you caught it, after a few days…
Fever, then…
You couldn't smell anything. "Did you fart, Cheryl? I can't smell it!"
You lost your sense of smell. Name another disease that does this.
Then you lost the sense of taste.
Yes.
It didn't change anything about the French-Canadian food, but…
There was a first dose of a vaccine.
Then, a second dose.
A third one!
A fourth one!
Every time the Premier would tell us about a new dose,
he looked like a husband caught cheating.
"I swear, this is the last time. I swear…"
"This won't happen again!"
"We can party later."
"We can celebrate, I'll make out with my sister on live TV…"
I've got a good one for you.
You must have blocked this out.
That's what happens with trauma.
Are you ready?
Look at me.
We needed to go home before 8:00 p.m.
Do you remember driving then?
Like a maniac on the highway!
At 7:45, "Get out of the way! I'm breaking the law!"
"Out of the way, bitch!"
How many of your neighbor's cats did you run over?
"Sorry, Pippo."
Look at that curve.
Looks like my dad's spine.
You needed to be home by 8:00, or they sent the boogeyman after you.
"Inside! No more late nights."
"No more!"
Unless you had a dog.
Which idiot bureaucrat came up with that?
"Mr. Premier, here's my idea to prevent mass suicide."
"8:00, okay."
"If someone has a dog,
they can walk one kilometer in this direction…
and retrace their steps."
How did you know you'd walked a kilometer?
"I think this is it."
I don't know about you,
but when that special dog-permission came out,
everyone in my hood, Chomedey, Laval,
walked anything they got their hands on.
Fish.
Fried fish.
Yeah.
My cousin Yusef would walk his microwave.
"Pana! Hi, miss. Pana."
"Panasonic, come! Come, dickhead, come!"
"How did it end?"
How did it end?
While you were in a coma, it was a nightmare.
Yes, the first time…
Especially for women.
Women, locked up, not allowed to go out…
At one point, they were able to go out…
They all had 6-inch roots showing and huge bushes.
"I'm getting some Starbucks!"
Over.
So thanks for being here. My mom always said to be grateful.
"Be grateful, you bastard."
"Rachid, my son,
you know you're the first Arab in Quebec to have such a successful comedy career?"
"There were no famous Arabs before."
"To be the first in this industry comes with responsibilities, son."
"Find a cause you care about and improve our society."
I was like, "I'm not in politics. What's going on?"
"I'm not an activist, I'm a comedian."
"It'll come without you knowing." And I think it did.
I believe, while trying to entertain you, year after year,
I think I might've helped improve
the image of Arabs, which, honestly,
has needed a makeover since 9/11.
Right?
Seriously.
If any of you studied world history,
name one people for the last 500 years
that's been the face of terror for this long.
It's crazy.
We've been playing terrorists in American movies since the '80s.
Enough! Arabs are a great people,
they deserve to be discovered. Extraordinary people.
But there's always this idea in our collective imagination.
It's true!
But it's here and it exists.
These stereotypes feeding this face of terror are alive and well,
all because of two types of extremists.
I'll surprise you, these extremists couldn't be further apart.
You know the first one, the terrorist you see in the news,
trying to kill as many people as possible.
Then there's the other extremist.
An extremist is someone with extreme opinions.
So there's the other one, in his mom's basement.
You know him, he judges Arabs as a whole.
"Look at that baby! There's something in that diaper."
"A grenade or something. We need to check!"
You know him?
He lives in his mother's basement in Saint-Jérôme, he's 44 years old.
He watches TV half-naked.
He's more comfortable that way.
He crushes Cheetos on his gut like this.
And he screams at the TV,
"Hey!"
"No deal! No deal, Howie!"
"Come on!"
This face of terror keeps going because of these extremists.
I'm so unlucky, on the same day, same night, really,
I experienced both.
I was leaving the Bordel Comedy Club
where comedians go to test out new material.
It went well!
I'm proud as a peacock.
An older lady comes up to me.
She goes, "Good evening, Mr. Badouri, I loved your set."
"Oh, thanks so much." "You're Moroccan, aren't you?"
I go, "I was born here but I have Moroccan ancestry."
"Oh, you're Moroccan."
She rolled her Rs.
She voted for the CAQ. She says…
That's how we spot you at the polling station.
She says…
She says, "I loved how you made us laugh."
Listen to what she said next, "Seeing you make us laugh is a big change
from your usual negative Moroccan reputation."
I thought, "Oh!"
"Smells like racism in here."
"What reputation are you talking about? Arabs have an array to choose from."
She goes, "About how you're the biggest thieves on Earth!"
I thought, "Oh!"
She was old, I put my knife away.
I said, "Listen."
I'm not going to fight her, she's 108 years old. I said, "Hang on."
She met someone famous, she put her foot in her mouth.
But we'll help her. We'll rephrase.
She didn't want to say we were the biggest thieves in the world.
Rather, I think she was saying that
when a Moroccan steals something,
the entire planet knows about it
because the robbery itself is closer to science fiction.
Even magicians in Vegas want to know their tricks.
They don't know how they do it.
While she was saying this to me,
I remembered reading a story in the paper,
page three, some of you will remember it too,
there was a picture of a missing Citi Bike they'd found.
Wait! Don't give it away.
"Yes!" Calm down.
They found a Citi bike, very far from where it was supposed to be.
I'm taking my time with this story.
You want the punchline too soon. It's my job.
Calm down.
Go ahead, where was it?
In Casablanca, Morocco!
What?
Have you ever seen a Citi Bike?
I doubt you've never seen one, if not, Google it.
It's not a Big Wheel.
It's like a mountain bike,
with handlebars like moose antlers.
They weld a tiny picnic basket in the front,
with a sticker covering the entire back wheel.
It's neon orange.
DoorDash on the back wheel.
The Moroccan went through security.
How shitty is our security?
The Moroccan, he went through, "Hi! Salam alaikum."
"Just biking around the city, I'll be back."
Just like that!
Nothing! They didn't see anything!
"Nice bike, Cheryl."
"Look, the handlebar and the…"
"Hey, sir! Hey! You, with the bike."
"Stop. You thought you'd snuck past me?"
"Leave the bottle of water here."
"It's illegal."
So he stole it, but there's more.
The cherry on top of the couscous. He put it up for sale.
Usually, the point of being a criminal
is to slip under the radar, go unnoticed.
Not him. He placed an ad on the Moroccan Kijiji.
"Nice Canadian bike for sale."
"The last owner, Mr. DoorDash,
wrote his name on the wheel like a son of a bitch."
Moroccans have never been thieves.
We are salesmen, though.
Come on! Some stereotypes are true.
It's in my blood to bargain daily, otherwise, my brain will implode.
Don't believe me? Stop going south for your vacation.
"All-inclusive, blah blah blah…"
Go to Morocco.
Go visit one of, if not the most beautiful country in the world.
Go see what's… Go to Marrakesh.
I was filming a documentary there with my dad. You'll freak!
Your eyes aren't ready for it.
Go to the south of Morocco, visit a souk. I'm begging you.
It's like a flea market but really exotic. You'll love it!
Souks are the heart of Morocco, I swear.
You can find anything there.
Even knock-offs. You've got to be careful.
There's contraband sometimes. You know it's fake.
If you go into a store and you see Adidus, get out!
I saw a nice Lacoste polo. What's their logo?
-A crocodile. -Took you long enough. "Huh, a horse?"
It's a crocodile with its tail up, right?
Great. I find a nice blue one.
I step up to the mirror, the tail curved downward,
almost between his legs.
That's not a Lacoste, that's Low-cost.
I said, "Sir, it's a fake."
"No, no. I swear on my mother's life."
"On my mother's life, friend."
"First, I'm not your friend. Second…"
"Stop swearing on your mother's life when you're lying."
"Her head's going to fall off. You put too much on it, it'll fall off."
"It's a fake! Look! The tail's curved underneath it!"
"That's because you're being loud. He's scared."
"That's why he put his tail between his legs."
And he adds, "Wait a couple of hours, rub the tail, it'll come up like so."
I bought it.
No one ever…
It never stops.
There's always someone, I told you, two extremes.
There's always one side or the other feeding the stereotypes.
Remember a few years ago, in Toronto,
a maniac, in broad daylight, ran people over in downtown Toronto.
He rented a white van, and bam!
That's another kind of terror. He didn't like women.
He wanted to kill as many as possible.
He was part of a group who describe themselves as "involuntarily celibate".
Involuntarily celibate?
The woman you killed that day,
who left her boyfriend grieving,
he's involuntarily celibate!
Not you!
What did your mom tell you…
What did she say to you for you to reach that point?
What did she say? "Girls don't want you, Habibi? It's okay."
"It's fine."
"In life, we pick ourselves up and forge ahead."
That was dark.
I thought it was an Arab.
When I heard there was an attack, I was like, "Not again."
"Another step back."
It never stops.
If it's not this side, it's the other.
The man in his basement.
His mom's basement.
I remember when it started in France.
What was it? Bataclan, Charlie Hebdo.
In Spain, in Belgium, in an airport. Everywhere.
And one of these dimwits writes to me on Facebook,
where everyone can see what he wrote,
"Hey, Rachid, did your family do this?"
"Can you tell them to stop?" No, don't, "Uh".
He was writing my show. I was like, "Keep going!"
He wrote some jokes for me, I'm happy.
But he didn't stop.
Terrorists attacked an airport in Belgium. He writes again.
"Every time there's a terrorist attack, you don't speak up."
"You're playing deaf and dumb. So you're a terrorist."
I went, "Oh?"
"He exposed me."
Montreal, explain his thought process to me.
"You're playing deaf and dumb, you're a terrorist."
Of course. Everyone knows the legendary deaf and dumb terrorist.
Mohammed El-Mute…
entered an airport with bombs strapped to his chest and went,
"Did it blow up?"
"I can't hear, did it blow?"
"No?"
Some of you would laugh at anything, but others are looking at me like…
"What's happening with him?"
"He's not going to do the moonwalk?"
"Is it racist if we laugh?"
"You don't know anymore. Are we deaf-ophobic? I don't know."
When I wrote the joke I thought, "It's harsh for deaf and mute people."
Then I thought, "They'll never hear it!" So laugh!
Laugh your ass off!
Up there, laugh!
Laugh!
"Did your family…"
Yes, laugh but calm down.
Are you coming or laughing?
Hands off.
That's why he won't take you out.
Imagine in the metro. "Next stop, Berri."
"Did your family do this?"
What was he thinking? That when I see news like that, I go…
We're as scared as you! We're ashamed, too.
"Not again! Enough!"
"Look, his name. His name!"
"He won't be coming for Christmas."
We don't even celebrate Christmas.
Stop being scared of Arabs. They should be thanked.
We have numbers today because of them. Yeah, you forgot about that.
You forgot.
You thought Christopher Columbus brought you algebra?
No.
It was the Arabs. We have numbers thanks to them.
Without them, you'd still be stuck with Roman numerals.
Imagine how hard it would be.
They're a beautiful people. Like I've been saying.
But our language, when you don't know it--
Well, North Africa, Maghreb, it's fine.
My wife is Syrian. When she talks, sometimes I'm like, "Yeah…"
"Are you mad? I'm not sure…"
Yet, it's one of the most romantic languages in the world.
We say French is one of the most romantic.
In France.
Because here…
"Nancy!"
"I'm your pizza, you're my ghetti. Hop in the oven and let's get cooking."
"Let's get cooking, Nancy!"
Anyway.
Arabic is one of the most romantic languages.
My wife translates song lyrics from a Lebanese artist.
I think, "Wow, what this guy does for his wife is amazing."
But we can't hear it.
We can't hear it.
Miss, if I go…
Admit it, it sounds like, "I'll cut you up in eight pieces."
I swear. There are Arabs here tonight. What did I say?
-I love you! -That I love her.
"My love."
"Just smile! That's the problem, Arabs never smile."
It's worse.
This! You can't do this!
That's the psychopath!
That's why guys who serve shawarma don't smile.
Have you ever been? Why do they make you feel like hostages?
"What do you want in your shish taouk?"
-"What do you want?" -"I just want to live."
"Your nose is bleeding, calm down. Go get a mat, we'll pray."
"I'm the one who wanted to come here, let my daughter go. Run, Megan!"
The one in the back, cutting the…
He's the worst. He can't talk to you.
His only job is to cut the meat with his Japanese sword.
He's cutting a chicken that looks like an 11-year-old's torso.
That's why I love Latinos.
Go ahead, yeah. I'm jealous, but go ahead.
I grew up with them, but damn, I'm envious.
They've been blessed!
Centuries ago, Latinos saw Arabs
introduce Arabic to the world.
"Hi, we are Arabs, yes."
Latinos went…
They reached a consensus.
"Let's reach a consensus."
"Carlos, you reach a consensus with him."
"Reach a consensus together."
They reached a consensus. "Every time we'll open our boca,
people will think we're hitting on them."
And it works!
You don't associate terrorists with Latinos.
"Rachid, it's not the same."
"Latinos are suave, caliente."
"Latinos are so hot."
"Bad Bunny can Fuego Fuego this ass."
"Latinos are suave."
"Arabs are terrorists
blowing themselves and others up, just to get those 72 virgins in heaven."
72 virgins for a Latino is a Tuesday night.
Yes.
"A casual Tuesday."
A little calm, relaxing Tuesday.
You don't think terrorists when thinking of Latinos. No way.
"It's not the same!"
Latinos can get anyone they want.
Especially girls from Quebec. Why do you think the south…
is the most popular vacation spot in Quebec?
She won't tell you, because she wants to go.
She wants that reggaeton class by the pool.
That's what she wants, dude.
They're a hit with any girl from Quebec.
From the youngest ones to the oldest.
Janet, 51 years old.
She went through all of Warwick, didn't find a boyfriend.
So she's off to Cayo Coco.
Name one girl from Quebec who has never been to Cayo Coco.
One week, all-inclusive, at the Bahia Principe Hotel.
Because I deserve it.
She gets there, she's not wasting time. She's all over Pedro.
The pool's bartender.
Every morning, "Holà, Pedro!"
"God, I'm shitfaced."
"Right away."
Yes!
He doesn't think she's an annoying tourist.
No, he sees Janet and what does he see? "Canadian citizenship."
"Health insurance."
"Ay-yay-yay, health!"
Every Latinos' word is thought out.
How long did it take us to come up with bathroom?
Not long.
"I'm off to the bathroom."
It's just bathroom.
But they made sure it had style. It was fashionable, romantic. "Baño."
It sounds expensive. You say bathroom…
You say baño, "I'm coming, Pedro!"
Okay. "Shit."
It's even worse with a Québec accent. "Shite."
There's one more letter and it changes everything.
It screams better. "You little shite!"
It's still shitty. You can smell it, like the word is in 4D.
But in Spanish…
Mierda.
It's not fair!
Mierda!
Wouldn't you bring your daughter to see that Disney movie, Princess Mierda?
I would.
I'd call my daughter Mierda.
"That's my daughter, Mierda."
"Her brother, Baño."
"And the youngest, Constipado. Yes."
"He took his time coming out."
My wife, she's Syrian, born in Quebec, just like me.
She wants to help fight against Arab stereotypes in her field.
She's a Special Ed Teacher Do we have any with us tonight?
Thanks for coming. It's my honor to make you laugh.
Can we give it up for them? Everyone, come on, let's go.
Thank you.
Thank you for that.
I asked that, because you can't understand
that those who clapped before you
are among the most passionate about their jobs.
More than artists and that's hard to beat.
There's a thousand reasons why but I'll name just one.
They are often underpaid
even though they save lives.
There it is. That's the society we chose to live in, as sheep.
We have to live with that.
We can recruit hockey players, though.
Pay them millions to push a puck around.
They don't speak French? Who cares?
"Push the puck."
"If you could put it in the net once every 10 years,
that'd be great."
We can recruit the next hockey legend, we'd be entertained for sure.
But they can't save a life
while playing at the Bell Centre.
Maybe they can inspire a kid to make it to the top.
But they can't save a life during the game.
Meanwhile, there are orderlies, nurses, whom we threatened during the pandemic!
They're at work, doing mandatory overtime
to keep us alive!
And them?
It's insane.
What's even worse is my wife
is underpaid to save lives,
and her husband, the comedian, is overpaid to make you laugh tonight.
"Turns out, I love hockey. So fun."
She saves lives. She doesn't like me telling that story but she's not here.
She's downstairs.
She worked in a school with kids with behavior disorders.
After lunch, she saw one of her students on a rock, ready to jump.
Her boyfriend broke up with her and her life was over.
Fifteen! Her life was over, okay?
So my wife intervened.
She prevented her from committing suicide.
Then, she saw her for a year.
The girl went to counselling with her for a year.
My wife gave her phone number to her so if there was ever another crisis,
she could call her, to save her, to help her, one year.
Sometimes the girl called the house at 2:00 a.m.
I picked up once, I couldn't take it anymore.
"He doesn't love you. Kill yourself. Go die."
"Stop whining, dude."
"Here's my wife."
"Hurry, she's going to jump!"
I don't know what to say sometimes. I say, "You're a hero."
"You and your colleagues, a league of your own."
She doesn't like compliments. She always needs to pay it back.
She says, "You do good too!"
Why did I imitate her like that?
That was so mean!
That's how I imitate my wife?
"You make people feel good too!"
"Don't commit suicide."
"You make people feel happy."
"Honey, can you just take the compliment?"
"Compare apples to apples!"
"You make them feel good. Sure, me too."
"But you do a one-year follow-up with them!"
"After the show, they go home and I go home."
"If they follow me or me them, there's a problem!"
Can you imagine?
You come home tonight, 11:30.
"Who's that, Bill?"
"Rachid Badouri."
"Open the door, we'll talk."
Do you know how important it is nowadays to have a Special Ed Teacher?
It's not like it used to be.
No, it's not.
Back then, we feared authority. We were scared.
Our parents scared us. At least, mine did.
I could throw paint on the walls, spit in a kid's face,
stick my bare ass out the classroom window,
As soon as Miss Helen said, "I'll call your dad!"
And that was it!
So she arrives home and I don't know what to do.
So I try the spiritual approach, we have faith, and I tell her,
"Maybe it's not on this Earth."
"This world is so screwed up, that they have no clue
how to gauge the value of you and your colleagues."
"Maybe when you die, you'll inherit Heaven."
"I don't know if you'll have a home in Heaven."
"But if you and your colleagues get a crib in Heaven,
it'll be at the corner of Nelson Mandela and Mother Teresa boulevards."
I felt pretty cute when I said that.
And then I told myself,
"You say some silly shit, Rachid Badouri."
Because it makes no sense.
You just said it was a screwed-up society
in which my wife, a teacher, is underpaid.
And when she dies, she'll be overpaid.
Me, I'm overpaid on this Earth.
Where do I go when I die?
It will be warmer than in Cayo Coco.
I'll be looking for my new address, "Excuse me, Guy Turcotte Boulevard?"
"To the right, near Epstein Park. Perfect."
"A park for young girls, good idea."
She is an educator specialized in youths with behavioral problems.
I'm her first project.
And when she's not with me, she's with our daughter Nayla.
Who is now nine years old.
Can you imagine, I missed out on seeing that princess grow up?
I was touring Europe until she was four.
I didn't see her.
Thank God my wife had some help.
One of her friends stayed with her at home for the first four years.
So my daughter grew up thinking her dad was a strong Haitian woman.
It was hard for me when I would come back. I was trying to be a father to her.
"Nayla! It's me, your father!"
"Stop that right now and come to me."
"You come here, bitch".
What?
The pandemic did do something for me. I could stay home with my family.
I didn't have to travel.
And above all, I took the time to get to know my daughter.
The more I got to know her, the more I realized
I don't like her that much.
She's crazy.
Pretty crazy.
When my wife was pregnant I prayed,
"If you hear me, make it so she takes after her mom."
Special Ed teachers are calm and zen.
She doesn't need to take after me, except my sense of humor.
Not this! Nothing!
Not this!
I don't do drugs and I'm like this!
Good thing I grew up in the '80s.
It wasn't yet a trend to label your kid with a disorder.
Unlike today.
Careful, if you want kids today, we'll find them a disorder.
"My kid doesn't have one."
Shut up. Your kid has one.
We're sure to find something. ADHD, ADD--
Shut up. There's always something!
I'm not laughing at those who have a diagnosis.
If I was from this generation, boy.
Every diagnosis would have had turbo in it.
Back in the day, we didn't have pills, okay?
Pills. Is that the agenda? I don't get it.
Because it helps, I'm sure it does.
But I want you to know that isn't the only way.
I see many young people here. Thanks for coming.
I love it. I'm 46, you're still coming to my shows,
you follow me on TikTok, you keep me young.
Thanks for being a part of my life. But wait…
Thank you.
That's nice. Thank you.
I want to say there are other solutions, something other than pills.
If they told you that, like Uncle Rachid, you've got a small
attention deficit.
A small deficit, okay? Lack of focus.
I'll give you some advice.
Get off your tablet and stop watching French YouTubers for 15 minutes,
and go play dodgeball outside.
One game and you're cured.
I'm telling you.
Because if your problem is attention,
and you play a game
where you can get killed at any time,
with a ball to the face going 100 kilometers an hour,
you'll pay attention!
I know what that ball feels like hitting your face.
When I was young, I was the Quebecers' only target.
"Hey, Aladdin. Aladdin only!"
"In his face!"
Do you remember the orange balls? With some metal inside.
Spalding was etched into my forehead.
But backwards. "gnidlapS."
People thought I had a tattoo in Russian. "gnidlapS."
Imagine if this trend had started in the '80s, the disorders.
The doctor would have assessed me to know which disorder I've got.
The doctor would've come out after 15 seconds.
"Call the cops."
"I have a nosebleed."
"Where are this chimp's parents?"
"Come here."
"We assessed Rachid, he needs to be put down right away."
Imagine my mom, "He has ADHD?"
"No TBB, Two Bullets in the Brain."
"Go ahead, behind the shed outside."
"I'm doing you a favor right now."
Anyway, I'm at the hospital.
I'm waiting for our daughter's arrival.
I was saying, "Push, honey, push!"
It's so funny. Men are too proud to admit how useless we are at this step.
Have you seen us there?
"Push, honey, push. I'll hold your hand."
"We're in this together."
"I'm with you in this."
"Push!"
What did you do exactly?
What did we do?
They gave up nine months of their lives.
That's superhuman.
And they suffer for the rest of their lives!
What did we contribute?
Nine minutes for the best among us?
That's it!
What did you do, bro? What did we do?
We went to an ATM, that's what we did.
We went to the ATM, put our card in, pushed buttons, made a deposit,
took it out, then waited until it earned interest.
You went to the ATM.
Stop complaining, go to Tim Hortons, she'll call you when it's out.
Anyway, I'm like, "Push!"
When I saw my daughter come out, I understood, Montreal,
that when I was praying she took after her mom,
they had taken the day off upstairs. Because…
my daughter came out like this.
I said, "Put it back. No way it's ours."
"It got the wrong uterus, for sure."
I cut the umbilical cord.
And the experience was just disgusting.
Never do that.
I'm warning you, don't. Takes you by surprise.
When you hold the baby, "Want to cut the cord?"
"Why, bro?"
"Yo man, finish your job."
When I conceived my child with my wife in intimacy,
did I stop at the last minute and go,
"Mike, finish this, I've got a Zoom."
"Spank her. She likes it!"
The baby is 15 seconds old.
I don't understand.
They took her out, they latched her onto my wife's breast.
Fifteen seconds old, no teeth, she doesn't see anything.
And she's already sucking.
Like a leech. Like a vampire.
Ripped my wife's nip.
She's bleeding and laughing, like a dumbass.
"Isn't she cute?" "No!"
"What should we name her?" "Satan!"
"It's not a girl's name." "Satanette!"
"Sheitanette for back home."
I wanted an exchange right away. No such luck.
There was just one other lady giving birth.
An Arab baby, but a redhead. What would I do with that?
I've spent the last 20 minutes telling you how hard it is to be Arab in this society.
And on top of that, he's a redhead? Who's going to hire him? Who?
Except the Riverdance troops.
Arab and ginger!
Even terrorists would go, "Sorry, we're full."
"Annie. Never come back here, Annie."
"Go seek Jesus. Jesus loves you, go see him."
Seeing a woman give birth commands respect, it's crazy.
It should be the definition, the picture in the dictionary,
next to "resilience," "bravery."
A woman, but captured right at that moment with the coconut.
If you're a man and you've seen that,
if you were witness to a woman going through all this pain,
if you saw it, you've witnessed it, and you still don't respect women,
you're either a complete moron or a Supreme Court Justice in the US.
If not, you're not normal.
Not normal.
Montreal, my wife went through all the symptoms.
All of them!
Three nausea-filled months. As soon as we saw the shrimp inside her.
Three months, non-stop.
If I were nauseous for an hour, I'd cancel my Netflix special.
Three months! Every day.
I was nauseous because of her nausea!
She did it on purpose. As soon as they started, "Hey, babe."
"It's happening again."
"Oh fuck. Me too."
We looked like a pair of seals.
Neighbors threw sardines over. "Badouri!"
Seeing a woman give birth commands respect.
When I tell you you're superheroes, it's not to pander to you, ladies.
It's to tell you, you're not normal. Superheroes aren't normal.
It's not normal that when you're handed your baby,
you smile and cry tears of joy.
Do you…
How could you be so happy?
I would have left it there.
"I'm leaving for five years, don't call me."
How can you be so happy, ladies, after giving birth?
Crying tears of joy, euphoria.
"Best day of my life."
How?
When you leave what looks like a crime scene at the hospital.
My wife's fluids were on the floor.
Her radiator was leaking.
She was shaking everywhere.
She couldn't feel her legs.
They stabbed her in the back with the epidural.
I think they hit the spine. She went, "I can't stand."
She looked like a Wacky Inflatable Tube Guy
they use for a store opening.
She was split open up to her butt crack.
She was split open.
Even Moses would have been like, "Shit!"
"We can't go through there."
Hair stamped on her face, drenched in sweat.
She looked like Gollum holding the baby.
"My precious!"
She turns to me,
"Give me another one, honey."
I wanted to wait until the end
to say you're the ideal crowd for a Netflix special,
but you are the ideal audience,
so thank you very much!
-We love you, Rachid! -Thanks!
That's so kind of you.
That's kind. I love you, too.
Even though you scared me a bit.
"We love you, Rachid!"
"You understand? Do you love me?"
"Yes, love you too."
He works at a shawarma shop.
I love you!
I love you too, brother. Thank you.
Nayla is nine years old now.
Time flies. I'm scared.
She's too pretty.
You know? Too pretty.
I knew it. I wanted her to look frog-like, like me.
She's the spitting image of her mom. I don't want wolves near her.
"I'll beat you up if you get near her."
I don't want them near her.
I'll rip your head off if you call her babe.
I don't want that guy near her.
"Know what I'm saying, bro?"
"It's all good in the hood."
No. I don't mind this guy,
"Hey, how are you?"
"I'm here to help with your tax return." "Sit down and eat!"
Come, habibi, come!
I signed my daughter up for MMA.
It's kind of like…
all the martial arts combined under one goal,
to kill you.
Don't believe me? Firas is her coach.
He's Georges St-Pierre's coach.
My wife can't stand it.
"If you don't stop,
she'll be single until she's 35 because of you."
"That's the whole point, dummy."
I don't want anybody near her.
"Hey, Nayla!"
"I just wanted to borrow a blue crayon to draw."
No one near her.
I know I sound a bit rough, but…
Let's talk numbers. You'll understand.
We're a family, I'll explain.
I started my research on Google around 2018 for this bit.
I studied surveys and censuses done by Statistics Canada.
And I learned that in Canada one woman per week,
or every seven days,
in this magnificent country, Canada, was murdered by her spouse.
I'm not talking about a slap, but murder.
That's it, you're done. One? That's too many.
52 per year.
Let's ask the parents of those 52 women if they would have wanted them
to defend themselves against those maniacs.
If you're judging me…
I can see you staring like, "Look at this guy."
"He doesn't want to be called a terrorist
yet he's making his daughter a mujahideen."
I know. But I'll take it further.
If my daughter goes to jail because she killed her abuser,
I'll bring her favorite Pillsbury cookies to jail every morning and I'll say,
"Babe, have a snack because you are the champion."
And I head back home right after.
Then, I calmed down.
Emotions won't lead you anywhere. I learned that the hard way.
No.
I had to relax because Nayla
hates MMA.
She wants to do ballet, damn it.
But she's right.
Why is it our daughter's responsibility to learn how to defend themselves
because the numbers tell us that at some point in their lives,
they'll be assaulted one way or another.
Why should they learn how to fight,
when it's the men's responsibility to teach future generations and to say,
"Listen to me,
there is zero tolerance for assaulting a woman"?
"If you get rejected after a date,
you turn your heels, get in your car, and jerk off. That's it."
Sorry to those who brought their kids and heard "jerk off," but believe me,
they've heard a lot worse.
Is it just me or are children born pure?
Perfect.
And we're the ones that, you know…
Maybe it's just me.
We, parents, society, social media, we're driving them crazy.
Children are born pure. They may take a dump on the floor, but…
Think about it, a baby isn't a homophobe.
We're the ones that push these notions.
Not us, but you know, adults.
"Homophobe." It's a heavily loaded word.
Phobia, scared. Of what? That it's contagious.
Like some idiots write on Facebook.
Guys, please, just listen.
We have to do something. We talk about gun control.
Sure. But before that.
We have to clean house.
We have to forbid internet access
to some idiots who vomit misinformation on social media,
and who do more damage than a bullet.
We got to stop that.
Stop. Too many phobias!
Some phobias don't even make sense!
For instance, how can a Muslim man who is a victim of Islamophobia,
as a victim of hatred towards Muslims,
how can he wake up one morning and feel that same hatred towards a gay person?
And how can a gay person be Islamophobic with the hate he suffers?
You guys should get it.
Unfortunately, some folks hate you because of those differences.
Talk it out, dammit.
You, because you eat halal. You, because you eat Hal.
Hash it out!
Talk about it.
You have a lot in common.
Kids aren't scared of death.
Unlike me. They don't see death the same way.
I have to tell you about the time I thought I was dying.
In my mind, I was dead.
Between the ages of 39 and 40, I got very sick.
I had to travel two to four times
from Quebec to Europe for shows.
I told myself,
"I'll return in October for two weeks to celebrate my 40th."
Then leave again to play 36 shows in 41 days before Christmas.
I didn't make it.
When I got here in October for my birthday,
I fell very ill.
My wife drove from the airport to the hospital.
My legs were swollen, and so was my body.
I looked like Georges St-Pierre's ear. It was nuts.
I did tests and the doctor said,
"It's worse than expected, you have cellulitis in your leg."
"Bro, cellulite?"
"My sisters didn't die from cellulite."
He didn't think it was funny. He said,
"We have to keep you here for four days for the IV to stop the infection."
"It's dangerous."
"It's from the same family as the flesh-eating bacteria."
I was freaking out. Let's do it.
After four days, I said, "It's my birthday."
"I'm not celebrating here. I didn't grind my entire life for this."
"Where are you going in that state?"
Why would he say that? I was close to being paralyzed.
I was so swollen that if someone were to hit me, I'd crumble and die.
I had this partial paralysis
where I couldn't bend my back, my arms, and legs.
I couldn't wash myself.
My wife would wash me.
Here.
Hey!
Don't ever let your wife wash you down there.
She'll throw it in your face
for 14 years!
I'm chilling, watching Netflix, everything is dandy.
She goes, "Guests are coming, we need milk."
"I don't feel like it."
"What?"
"Hey, look at me."
"You don't feel like it?"
"You think I felt like washing your balls?"
"Listen here. I still did it."
"I did it. I held those old figs of yours."
"Look at me! I did it."
"I'll go get the milk."
I started feeling better. I cancelled my 36 shows.
I was in stable condition. I canceled the 36 shows in Europe.
Thank God I had insurance.
With no insurance, you go broke.
But they call to say they're not going to pay.
"I don't get it, I'll kick you in the throat."
"We don't believe you're sick enough to cancel."
"I am sick!"
"We believe you." "Doesn't feel that way."
"If that was true, you'd send me money."
"We'll send you back to get more tests."
I get more tests.
Why are doctors obsessed with holes? Is it a golf thing?
When they see a hole, they're like, "Let's see if we can stick something there
and pull it out from the other side."
I did tests. Everything looked fine.
Until they showed me the black spots on my lungs from the X-rays.
"Is that cancer?"
"We need to scan it." "Okay."
So they injected iodine into my veins and passed me through the machine.
That's how I learned…
that
I'm allergic to iodine.
I was the one who figured it out.
I was just chilling in the bobsled.
This entire region starting to swell for seemingly no reason.
"He's gonna pop. Let's get him out."
After an hour of Benadryl, they came back with the results.
The black spots are still there.
"Excuse me, is it cancer?"
"Can't say." "Can't?"
"Could you ask AskGPT, maybe?"
"What's wrong with me? Shoot me straight, how bad is it?"
"I'm certain these black spots mean death."
"Black spots on my bananas at home, means they have three days left."
"Calm down! You're going to need a bronchoscopy."
"What do dinosaurs have to do with this?"
He gets me ready for the bronchoscopy.
They just put some lube in your throat.
But it looks like, in my records, it was written,
"Warning, hypochondriac, risk of a lawsuit against the doctors and the hospital."
"Knock him out."
It was just to relax me, so they could've stopped after one drug.
Nope, two drugs.
Versed and Fentanyl.
I've never had drugs in my entire life.
Not even a joint or a line of coke.
I don't care if you don't believe me,
but these guys didn't know how much of a virgin I was.
They had no way to know.
Because they shot me up with the same drug cocktail
they would have offered Amy Winehouse at happy hour.
It hit my bloodstream, and I was like…
"Everything okay?"
I was like this before it started.
Want to know why?
I was imagining I had hair.
It was amazing.
I made myself a ponytail.
Right before it began,
I held my wife's hand tightly, and I looked at her,
and said, "Babe…
I'm so stoned."
"Doesn't it feel…"
"Doesn't it feel like sweater weather?"
"You're so beautiful,
my wife."
"Sexy wife of mine."
"Doesn't it feel like sweater weather?"
She tells me, "It does, but I'm not your wife."
A bronchoscopy and a biopsy to see if it was cancer or not.
I vomit blood for hours on end.
I'm waiting for the results to see if it's cancer
between December 22nd and December 31st of that year.
Happy Holidays
It was nuts.
Then, on the 31st.
I'll always remember, it was 1:22.
"Badouri, cancer-free."
Oh God, the relief.
"We're in the clear."
"What are the black spots? What's up?"
"How do we cure it? Is it for life? What's my medicine?"
"Well, that's why I took my time reviewing with my colleagues."
"We have top-of-the-line scanners at the hospital."
"You have nothing."
"What?" "Happy New Year!" He hung up.
"Nothing?"
My wife goes,
"So? What did he say?" "I don't have cancer."
"That's great!" "No, it isn't!"
"They filled all my holes as if I were
an open house at college."
"They used my throat like a porn star."
"Got me stoned like I was one of Bill Cosby's dates."
"All that to…
tell me that I have nothing? I feel violated."
She goes, "Hey!
"I washed your balls for absolutely nothing."
"I'm the victim here, so go get that milk and shut your mouth!"
"Okay."
I don't know if you've ever had a fear of dying. I had.
I was getting skinnier by the second.
I wasn't sleeping in my room, I'd sleep in a corner of my condo,
motionless.
I stopped talking, my friends freaked.
They'd call me, "You okay?" "I'll die tomorrow. Stop calling."
They brought strange Christmas gifts. Eggs, avocados, milk,
things that would expire before I die so I'd enjoy them.
I said to my wife, "My time hasn't come yet."
I was sure I was about to die. My wife has an unbelievable gift.
My wife can take all my money.
I'm just kidding. I was checking if you were listening.
When you're down, she can help you get back on your horse
and help you charge into war, but that's not what she did.
She came when I was at my lowest.
She said, "You want to hear something from me to ease your conscience,
but I won't do that."
"I've known you for a long time."
"It's the first time I've seen Rachid getting attention from Rachid."
"Hash it out."
"And hopefully, you'll take a moment
to think, and stop treating those around you
like a real asshole."
A "get well soon" card from Jean Coutu
is $2.78 and it comes with the envelope.
To understand why my gentle and compassionate wife would say such a thing,
I have to pause this for a second and come back to it in a moment.
Since the first time you heard about me,
you've been lied to about the true nature of Rachid Badouri.
I rose to stardom way too quickly.
To quote some of Quebec's journalists,
"Lightning Speed Success."
It was impossible for a spoiled brat like me to not let any of it affect me.
I quickly became what is known as a "diva."
But, Montreal, I knew what a diva was.
Because what you don't know is when I was 24 hours old, at the Sacré-Coeur hospital,
my mom held me in her arms, she was holding me tight.
A woman walked in from nowhere, and said,
"I'm sorry to bother you, I'm a fortune-teller."
My mother didn't know what that was. She went, "Ah, of course."
"I'm fortunate to see you, you're fortunate to see me."
"Now, get out of my face before you end up not so fortunate."
"Understood? Get out of here, skank."
"You don't get it."
"I wouldn't dare bother you in such a precious moment."
"But I came here to see a friend that's giving birth, and I felt an aura."
"I felt a strong aura in this room."
"Your son was born under a lucky star."
"He's going to be a star."
My mother never let that go.
"You're going to be a star. A superstar."
"People are going to laugh at your jokes."
For the first 27 years of my life,
I wasn't a star.
I lived at my parent's place.
I moved back in twice with my tail between my legs.
I lived in the basement. I owed my dad $10,000.
He doesn't know or I'd be dead.
I worked at Best Buy.
I'm the audio department manager.
I had two employees and still had a burnout.
There are no stars around me.
It's the pit of despair.
There are no stars.
The word star was absent of my life, except in the word starving.
My life was miserable.
I was an inch away from depression.
Right before I hit that point, I told myself, "One last try."
"My entire life I've been told that I can entertain anybody."
"Let me try to anchor my boat one last time,
and if all else fails, I'll dive head first into depression."
I made a DVD.
On it was a homemade compilation of all the times my DJ had filmed me
during weddings we would host for extra cash.
Nonsense I used to make people laugh.
I made 100 copies of it on DVD.
I carried them with me in my car which would blow blue smoke.
They called me Arabian Smurf.
I gave one to every production house in Montreal,
TV channels like TVA and CBC.
I even gave one to the weather channel.
I was ready to do anything to reach the top.
Except porn.
They already said no. And then…
no callbacks.
100 copies.
Not one single callback. I was freaking out.
I was at Best Buy going, "I'm ready, depression. Take me."
I imagined it showing up in the Best Buy parking lot in a convertible.
"Rachid!"
"It's your girl, Depresh!"
"Depression!"
Right as I was about to kiss her, my phone rings.
Best Buy employees aren't supposed to answer, but I didn't care.
I answer like I'm depressed, "Hello!"
"I'm with the Just For Laughs Festival." "Excuse me?"
"I'd like to give you an audition."
"If it works out, we could give you a spot on one of those galas you see on TV."
"Get a quick 10 minutes ready and bring some friends to support you."
I call my father,
"Dad?" "Yes?"
"Depression, and then…"
"Sort of…"
"Your dumbass son is having a seizure, call an ambulance."
DADDY BADOURI
"Why didn't we just get
an abortion with this one? It's legal here."
"What a waste of money, this one."
"Dad!" "Yes?"
"I must prepare a 10-minute set, and I can bring people for support."
I swear, this was his answer,
"Son, you get your set ready,
I'll get the army ready." He hangs up.
You're laughing, but I didn't get it. It made sense when I got there.
I arrived at the theater, 200 people. I'm peeking through the curtains.
It was my first show.
I could easily single out
sixty-four people from my neighborhood, Chomedey, Laval.
Everyone was there.
Everyone.
When I say everyone, I mean it.
Even the mailman was there.
My father is seating the guests. "Your laugh is deep, sit in the front."
"You stink, stay in your car."
Thank God we didn't get caught.
I do well on stage, and one of the Rozon sisters,
who organized the festival, comes to me with her card and goes,
"What time are you free tomorrow?" I said, "2:00."
"Call me at 2:00 p.m. tomorrow."
The next day at 2:00, sitting at my desk,
my mom's kitchen, really,
I take the landline, you know the ones with the cord.
We were spoiled, we had the long cord to get away from your parents.
"Can you pick me up at 9:00 at the park?"
You'd wrap yourself in it.
I still have one.
Everyone should have one. You want to know why?
To call your cellphone when you can't find it in your home.
My mom leaves the room to give me privacy.
"Ms. Rozon?" "Rachid, congratulations on yesterday."
And right there,
"Do you have plans on the 12th, the 13th and 14th of July?"
"I was planning on killing myself, but…
I could postpone until October, better scenery with the dead leaves."
She says, "Come and sign your contract."
"You're on the biggest gala this year hosted by Louis-José Houde."
I heard this.
"Ms. Rozon, is everything all right? Did you fall?"
"That was on your end." "That can't…"
"Can I have a moment?"
I open my mother's bedroom door.
My mother was kneeling.
She was there, and yet, she wasn't really.
She was listening in.
She had type-1 diabetes, the one with the needles.
Whenever there was a big wave of emotion, sugar would leak out.
"I'm the one who fell like a nut job, Mrs. Zonzon, thank you."
"Thank you once again. Go get me a Kit Kat. Hurry."
"Thank you for giving my dumbass son a chance."
"I'm so grateful, Ms. Zonzon."
"Now, he can finally leave the house, you understand?"
"Costco is expensive. Thank you so much."
"Thank you."
July 12th, 2005. That's my special date, Montreal.
You have one, that's mine.
There were other amazing dates.
The days my daughters were born, my wedding.
But that one, that's my date.
I'm at the Saint-Denis 1 theater, 2,300 people.
They could've been 6,000 on each other's knees.
It was Louis-José Houde. I was hidden behind the curtain.
When the stage opens, I'm the only comedian to walk in from the middle.
That's what Joseph St-Gelais, the stage director, wanted.
"You're the only one."
"Everyone comes in from the sides but you, like a tiger."
"Right…"
"A tiger."
My first show in front of 2,000 people. I was nervous.
My heart was going bonkers, the only thing that was keeping me sane
was hearing my idol, Louis-José Houde, introducing me.
"This next comedian…"
"Thank you."
"This next comedian is amazing."
"You don't know him."
"That won't be the case for long."
"I'm happy to be here because this guy will soon be famous."
"They say that he's a breath of fresh air, I'd say he's a storm of fresh air."
"Ladies and gentlemen, Rachid Badouri!"
The wall opened up.
2,000 people were staring at me.
And I blanked.
"Oh shit…"
"Get your head in the game!"
"Wake up, just make something up, you idiot."
"I'm of Arabic origin."
"That's how you start a show!"
Then, it's chaos.
Things were moving too fast.
Seven minutes later, a standing ovation.
Two weeks after, Newcomer of the Year award at Just for Laughs.
Three months later, same award at the Gala Les Olivier.
I had one successful show in Quebec, another one for Francophones worldwide.
I starred in a movie, a TV show.
In 2010, the Journal de Montreal named me Quebec's favorite comedian.
My ego started getting bigger.
And my asshole…
I became a double asshole.
A braggart and a tantrum thrower.
Oh yeah. Whenever things didn't go to plan, whenever I lost control,
whenever we made a last-minute adjustment, I lost it.
Whenever anxiety…
"Anxiety," I couldn't even spell that word five years earlier.
When the anxiety kicked in, I lost it.
And nobody could calm me down. They called me the unmanageable.
Everyone wants to be TikTok famous, Instagram famous,
but be careful with fame.
It'll catch up to you, it's dangerous.
Not long after being discovered,
I'll always remember that very dark evening in November 2010.
I'm in a room about this size in Montreal.
A packed room.
I'm hosting a sort of live show called May Contain Rachids.
Maybe that rings a bell.
A big-budget show, I couldn't mess it up.
So it begins. The director goes, "You're live, Rachid."
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to May Contain Rachids…"
"Cut!" "Just one moment."
"Yeah?" "We can't hear your mic."
"The audience hears me…" "Not here. Give us a moment. Take two."
"Apologies."
"Good evening, ladies--" "Cut!"
"Jesus…"
"What's going on?" "Microphone, take three."
"Microphone take four, take five."
"Microphone take 11."
El trou de culo…
was upseto.
It wanted to snap.
But I couldn't let it.
They're the only ones who still think I'm perfect.
I can't lose it in front of them.
My asshole has to remain hidden.
That's why I cover it with my pants.
Why don't you go lose it on your crew down in the dressing room?
On your punching bags.
That's what I did, without warning, not to the crowd or the crew,
I drop my microphone like this and I leave.
"Jesus Christ…"
I waited for them in the dressing room. My punching bags.
My manager, producer, my wife, my press agent, everyone was nervous.
"What's Princess Mierda about to do to us?"
"Close the door! Who was that idiot? 'Cut, cut, cut!'"
"Is he a chicken?"
"I told the make-up artist I was from Morocco
and now I look like a clementine."
"Where did you get them?"
"The room is staring at me, like,
'Everyone is so slow!'"
And I spewed my venom on everyone.
No one came out unscathed.
I even berated your grandmother.
And, finally, my day arrived served on a silver platter,
in the form of an intern.
He crashed through the door, sprinting.
"Rachid--" "Get out of here."
"We're having a private talk. Get out."
"Shut up."
"Did you tell me to shut up?"
He goes, "Yeah."
"Your lavalier mic
is still on."
"Everyone heard you."
"The staff was furious. They took off and left everything."
"The crowd is gone too."
"Except for three people."
"They're deaf and mute."
I could feel my career slipping away.
Tour managers and people like that slammed their door in my face.
"I'm not working for a guy who thinks he's God."
That was with my professional circle.
The one that really got it bad was my private circle,
my wife.
Because she had to take this asshole home.
She had to wash him, right?
The way I treated her.
I hope you never act that way.
I disrespected her so much.
What kind of man calls out his wife in public?
Is that what we call a man? Doing that?
No way.
My entire life,
I desired her.
That's how I treated her the entire time.
She was promised to me at 8.
Not true.
It was at 12, in exchange for a goat.
No!
I wanted her for my entire life. She was my childhood friend's sister.
Finally, we were together.
One magazine cover and I treated her like that.
She toughed it out.
But until when?
Until the day I was waiting for my cancer results.
Remember?
When she looked at me and said,
"Stop acting like an asshole."
She gave me an ultimatum at the same time.
"If you keep acting this way, Rachid Badouri…"
When she uses your last name…
you know it's almost over.
"If you keep acting like this,
it's the woman you claim to love the most
who will leave."
"My mom?"
I couldn't have picked a worse moment for a lame joke.
"No, you idiot, me."
"Nah, not you, baby. You and me are tight."
She goes, "What's tight?" "Well, we've been together so long…"
"Remember my…"
"You know what they say, scrotum for life."
"Keep going."
"That's all you've got left. Your bad jokes. Keep going."
"But if you don't get some help, I'm out. Do you understand?"
I knew what she wanted.
She wanted me to see a therapist.
No way!
I'm not going to see a therapist.
I love this character.
My back hurts.
I didn't want to go.
Badouris don't air our dirty laundry in public. It's crazy.
Immigrant parents can't accept the fact that their family is…
It didn't work out. You made the trip, but you're still nuts.
When people asked how we were we lied.
"We're good." Pots and pans flying everywhere.
"It's all good."
Flames in the background.
"Don't worry. We're roasting marshmallows."
They can't accept it. It has to be a success.
May my mother rest in peace, but appearances were so important to her.
That was more important than reality.
Everything was supposed to be a perfect success.
She was the Instagram model before Instagram.
Do you want to know how important appearances were to my mother?
"What will people think of us? What will the family say about us?"
Let me tell you a story, but don't judge me.
I was 14 years old.
I was a "Fresh," completely useless.
It's 11:00 p.m., I'm in my underwear in a French neighborhood.
Surrounded by Quebecers.
My mother arranged her flowers. The whole house was sparkling.
No air conditioning, so I'm watching basketball in my underwear.
My sister grabs the remote and puts on her show.
I take it back, she grabs it and smashes me with it.
I'm bleeding.
I weigh 30 pounds soaking wet.
It's the equivalent of a lamp post falling on my head.
I stand up, turn to her, and say,
"I'm going to kill you, fatso."
She's usually never scared.
She could simply sit on top of me and hold me down.
But this time, she was like, "He kind of has that Jeffrey Dahmer stare."
"I'm going to get out of here."
So she leaves the house around 11:15 wearing nothing but a Duran Duran T-shirt.
She's running outside and yells, "Help me!"
"There's a murderer!"
"Stop him! Call the cops!"
I'm behind her wearing my Fruit of the Looms.
I'm all skinny.
"I'm going to kill you, fatso!"
I look like a praying mantis with my legs.
"I'll kill you!" My mom's worst nightmare begins.
Neighborhood lights start popping on left and right.
It was 11:20 at night, my mom was like, "Oh, no. Oh, no."
"The neighbors!"
"I'm going to kill that fatso, Mom!"
She goes, "I get it, but come and kill the fatso inside!
"Don't kill the fatso in front of the neighbors!"
"We have to kill the fatso inside!"
I didn't have a choice. My mother did it to protect us, but it didn't work.
Losing my career for what had just happened? Who cares.
I can go sell Low-costs in Morocco.
But losing the woman of my dreams…
The same one to whom I never even gave a single chance.
A single chance to see the good side of her husband.
I wasn't even able to show her that she made the right choice.
I couldn't let that go.
There was no way.
So I went to see "the scammer."
That's what I called my therapist at first.
I wasn't even properly seated when he started,
"Did you know that an asshole--"
"What?"
"He thinks he's the center of the universe,
but when you take a long look at him,
you quickly realize
that he's nothing but the tiny center of his own ass."
A welcome card at Jean Coutu would have been--
That's how it started.
That guy is still my best friend.
We talked and talked and talked.
He told me stuff I could never have understood.
I could never hope for happiness in the future
or even understand the present without going through my damned past.
He said, "This is going to be hard."
"It's hard because you can't just erase it."
"It's not like your computer's history."
"Google or Safari, where you can just erase it."
Got it?
Thankfully, you can erase it.
The more I talked to him, the more I felt like I was talking with a painter.
Like it was somebody painting a portrait of Rachid.
I saw Rachid's true face appear on the canvas. I said, "Hey, that's me."
"That's the real me. Who's that guy?"
"Who's that guy that let every little thing trip him up?"
I felt like my identity was stolen.
I felt like a Capital One customer.
And I was--
Not too bad, huh?
He started by giving me exercises.
I fell, and got back up.
I fell, did more exercises. Got back up, fell again.
Some of my religious friends would send me words of wisdom.
I'd take everything I could. I'm not about to go off on religion.
I know my province. There was abuse.
When I mention that, I ask for nothing in return.
Just 10% of your salary, but that's it…
I'm trying to be honest.
Even though I know that we're in a society where
we've accepted the fact that part of it is bullshit as a way to cope.
We accepted that bullshit to fit in.
It's all about being accepted.
We'll accept the bullshit. Don't worry about it.
It's not like we can be 100% honest. Could you imagine?
100% honest, 24/7?
Could you imagine all those pitiful, white cops in the States?
Every time they would stop someone, "You were Black and driving."
They wouldn't be able to shut their mouths.
Life makes us walk through unknown paths and that's a good thing.
It makes it interesting.
It got me here with this Netflix special
to chat with you about what happened.
Not to tell you how perfect I am now. I'm not perfect at all!
I tried it, I almost lost my teeth, my life, my career, and my wife.
Dying imperfect is perfect. I'm not perfect at all.
I had breakfast at Allô! Mon Coco today.
There were packs of sugar for the coffee on the table.
I don't drink coffee.
I took one of the packs and used it as a toothpick.
And I put it back. Do you see? I'm still screwed!
I'm not perfect.
Accepting my weaknesses, and getting better every day,
that's a pill I'd swallow every day.
I want to do it for me, for my mental health.
They say that it all starts up here.
I want to do it for my princesses.
And for my queen, my wife, who deserves the world.
And lastly, I want to do this for you.
The ambassadors of my dreams for the last 15 years,
Montreal, I love you!
PERFORMED AT L'OLYMPIA DE MONTREAL JUST FOR LAUGHS, JULY 2023
FAMILY OR NOTHING
Subtitle translation by: Amaury Pinos