In September 2025, Riyadh launched its first Comedy Festival, flying in stars like Dave Chappelle, Kevin Hart, and Pete Davidson under Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman’s Vision 2030 push. Critics called it “comedy-washing,” noting performers were paid huge sums while contracts barred jokes about the kingdom, royals, or religion.[Comedian walks out on stage, scans the crowd. Stops at the front row.]
Good evening, Riyadh!
And a special welcome to the gentleman in the front row, holding the scimitar. Yeah, every comic dreams of a standing ovation, but tonight I’m hoping for a sitting sheathing.
So this is the “world’s largest comedy festival.” Fifty comics, two weeks, Boulevard City. Which is wild—because the contract they sent me said, “Don’t say anything that degrades, defames, embarrasses, ridicules, or otherwise reminds us we’re paying you.”
Most gigs say, “Don’t mention the CEO’s divorce.” This one said, “Don’t mention… literally anything.”
So tonight: airline food, jet lag, and the terrifying reality of doing crowd work while a guy polishes Damascus steel in the front row.
[Looks back at sword guy.]
Sir, blink once if you’re security, twice if you’re auditioning for Game of Thrones: The Dry Season.
They told me, “Don’t ridicule.”
Buddy, I ridicule myself harder than anyone. Look at me—**I’m the before photo in a gym ad that already failed. **
I’m so cowardly, I do cardio between the setup and the punchline—just in case I need to sprint to the airport. And not the arrivals hall, either. Departures. Fastest man alive, once I hear a sword leave leather.
Some people online said comics shouldn’t have taken this gig. Fair point. But listen—I also want my dentist to floss. He doesn’t. You know what he told me?
“Why would I floss? I own teeth. That’s your problem.”
So yeah—people are complicated, especially when there’s a seven-figure check dangling in front of them and a curved blade dangling in front of me.
Now, timing. The festival overlaps with the anniversary of Jamal Khashoggi’s murder.
[Beat. Quiet. Sound of scimitar being edged out of its scabbard.]
That’s not lost on me.
Comedy in moments like this is weird—we’re basically the band that plays while the ship insists it’s unsinkable. Only difference? My band has one violin, one drummer, and a guy waving a sword in the front row.
So what do we do? We patch the silence with almond milk jokes. Because almond milk never killed anyone… except maybe a barista’s will to live.
Tourist report: Visit Saudi is crushing it. Ten out of ten sand—warm, consistent, never once unionized. The dates are incredible. I don’t mean dating—no, no—dates like fruit. So sweet, they need a chaperone.
Where I’m from, we say, “We met on an app.” Here you say, “We met… our families.”
My app crashed just reading that sentence.
Security here is no joke. The metal detector beeped at my sarcasm. The guard was like, “Sir, we found irony in your carry-on.” I’m like, “Relax, it’s almond milk. It identifies as dairy.”
[Collects groan.]
That joke is legal in 43 countries… and maybe here, depending on whether Scimitar Guy sneezes.
And by the way—shout-out to the comics who turned this gig down. And to the ones who said yes and tried to smuggle a conscience in their carry-on. It’s a puzzle: how do you tell the truth in a room with rules?
Answer: carefully. With good posture. And never while the guy with the scimitar is clearing his throat.
My agent said, “Don’t mention the contract.”
I said, “I won’t mention it.”
[Mimes massive invisible wall.]
“I’ll just do my whole set inside this non-disparagement mime box.”
Here’s how you write jokes here:
Setup: “Things are…”
Punchline: “…great.”
Callback: “Still great!”
[Looks at sword guy.]
Tag: “Love the blade.”
So let me close with this:
[Hand to heart.] Shukran, you’ve been generous.
[Turns to sword guy.]
And sir with the scimitar… would you mind putting that thing away so you don’t accidentally slice my Uber driver in half?
Good night!