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We like all things Jordanian. Like how you can eat hummus three times a day. Or as you pull up to the hotel you get your car searched and then to get into the hotel you have to pass through the blast shield and go through x-ray. That shit kinda psyches you out a little, but then you go eat some hummus and all’s good.

Did I tell you about the hummus? If I had the skeletal dexterity to do so, I’d mount the mid-shin high tables and seductively drag my man parts through these great, big, heaping bowls of hummus while biting the corner of my lower lip on one side, connected to the Hubbly Bubbly on the other.

But I don’t.

Also, it’s socially taboo.

But that won’t stop me from coming back next year and trying it outside the greater capital area of Amman. Where there’s desert. And man has been known to do some silly shit while stuck out in the desert.

I’m sick ya’ll. Maybe it was the elderly, handicapped, heavyset (200+ kg) German man sitting behind me on the flight home who spent 5 ½ hours trying to cough up his Duodenum on the back of my head. Or maybe it was the coughing and hacking and sneezing and sniffling and eye rubbing of his 80 tour group friends. Or the poor senile man sitting next to me who spent the greater part of our pre-flight taxiing with his right hand down his pants scratching himself. I’m talking full ON down-his-pants. “Scratching.”

Why is it only cute when old men do that?

Or maybe it was a bad batch of Middle Eastern hummus that led to two days of, dare I say, explosive diarrhea. Beat THAT Boulder, Colorado.

I wish I was mature enough not to write that.