Me? I’m enjoying the scenery, which Gilda, of course, is shooting with her video camera. She’s getting some great shots for the next season of Jamie Funnie!

  We’re being chauffeured in an awesome Brazilian limo to the very famous, more-than-one-hundred-year-old Teatro Municipal, which was completely renovated back in 2009. Mr. Amodio’s production company is renting the theatrical palace for the Americas finals of the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic competition in Rio.

  We check in and check out the stage. It’s amazing.

  After testing the sound system and visiting my dressing room, we hop back into the limo and go grab something to eat. I gobble down some brigadeiros (sweet chocolate balls rolled in chocolate sprinkles) and my new fave, pao de queijo—also known as cheesy bread. Stevie goes for the barbecued beef, sausages, and cheese-on-a-stick. Gilda, Gaynor, and Pierce are more adventurous. They order something called moqueca, which is pronounced “moo-kek-a” and sounds like a cow with a cough. It’s fish stew. It smells like Long Beach after the tide rolls out.

  After lunch, the limo takes us on a quick swing past the fabulous Ipanema and Copacabana beaches (we don’t have time for a swim), then back to the theater to prep for the taping of the TV show.

  Backstage, I see a bunch of nervous comics from Mexico, Brazil, Jamaica, Peru—a dozen kids from all over the Americas.

  I also see a bunch of stage moms and dads. They’re all pushing their kids a little too hard for my taste (and you know I don’t like anybody pushing me). We have stage parents in the USA, too. I’ve seen dozens of them. I sometimes get the feeling that they’re putting pressure on their kids to succeed so they can live out their own showbiz dreams—the ones that maybe never came true.

  “Oh, look, it’s Jamie Grimm!” gushes one of the mothers. “Make him laugh, Hugo. Ele é um dos juízes.”

  “He is one of the judges?” says a confused crew member with a clipboard who understands Portuguese way better than me. (I thought the stage mom was ordering two juices.) “I thought Jamie Grimm was the master of ceremonies.”

  “I am,” I say.

  “We brought you a present from Jamrock, mon,” says a stage father with a Jamaican accent. He hands me a canvas bag with Bob Marley’s face silk-screened on the sides. Inside, there are jingling bottles of a grapefruity soda called Ting.

  “I’m not a judge,” I try to explain.

  “We’ll make you empanadas!” screams a stage mother.

  “Churros!” shouts another.

  All of a sudden, I’m wishing I could disappear into the real world with Uncle Frankie and Aunt Flora, where I might be able to magically turn into nobody special.

  Then the only Peruvian, Brazilian, Jamaican, or Mexican food I’d ever eat would come from Ay Caramba Express back home in Long Beach!

  MY JOB IN these regional shows is pretty easy.

  I just have to introduce the acts and maybe ad-lib something semifunny. I’ve always found it sort of easy, as an emcee, to riff off whatever’s going on around me. You don’t have to write a lot of material. You just have to keep your eyes and ears open and be ready for anything.

  The voting in these regional rounds is done by a panel of five judges—all of them local celebrities. When we get to the finals in London, the worldwide TV audience will do the voting via texts, phone calls, and online polls.

  The first kid up in Rio is a Jamaican joker named Dequain Dixon. I think his dad was the one who gave me the Ting soda. Dequain does a funny bit about how he can’t wait to go vacation. To Canada. In the winter.

  “You know, the beach can be sooooo boring. Every day, mon. Perfect weather. Bright sunshine. Sandy beaches. Crystal-clear water. Me? I want some snow, baby. And gray skies. Canada, that’s what I’m talking about, eh? I want to wear mittens and one of those puffy North Face parkas. By the way, what are mittens? Is that what Canadians call baby mice?”

  I really like the kid from Mexico, fourteen-year-old Miguel Ángel Gonzalez. He doesn’t have a stage mother or father. In fact, he’s an orphan who’s been doing street comedy for a couple of years, trying to work his way out of the slums of Mexico City.

  He does a funny bit in costume and skeleton-face makeup where he pretends he’s one of the dear departed souls who’s come back from the grave to celebrate el Día de los Muertos (the Day of the Dead) with his descendants.

  “You know, on el Día de los Muertos in Mexico, everybody makes shrines, with photos of their deceased relatives. Then they put on shell necklaces and dance around. You ever dance with seashells jangling around your neck? You make so much noise, you’re guaranteed to wake the dead. ‘Yo. Family. Knock it off. I was trying to take a dirt nap.’”

  The judges vote two comics on to the finals in London: my favorite, Miguel from Mexico, and a sassy girl named Gabriela Guarachi from Peru (her big line: “Send me to London. Alpaca my bags.”)

  Even though it’s after midnight when we wrap, we dash off to the airport. It’s a very long flight from Rio to Sydney, Australia—seventeen hours and nineteen minutes if we take the shortcut across Antarctica. I guess that’s why we have two teams of pilots and copilots.

  Everybody climbs aboard Air Funny One, laughing and talking about what a great time they had at the show and in Rio.

  Except for Stevie, Gaynor, and Pierce.

  They ate a little too much street food, including mystery meat on a stick. They also drank some water that they probably shouldn’t have.

  Too bad our jet only has one bathroom, which my three friends keep taking turns visiting. For about seventeen hours and nineteen minutes.

  WHEN WE LAND in Sydney, everybody is totally fried.

  Talk about jet lag. We flew across the International Date Line all the way into tomorrow!

  When the pilots open the main cabin door, two uniformed Australian customs officials come on board. They’re both clutching spray cans of disinfectant and insecticide.

  “G’day, mates,” says one as he starts spritzing something that smells like Lysol. “Pardon our quarantine. Because of our isolated location, Australia has been spared many diseases. Want to make certain that no dodgy germs or mozzies hitched a ride with you folks. Ta!”

  “Give it a burl, mate,” says Uncle Frankie. He and Aunt Flora studied Australian slang on the flight from Rio. “That’s a bonzer bloke.”

  “We haven’t seen any mosquitos on board,” adds Aunt Flora.

  “True,” says Gilda. “The only annoying whining on the flight was coming from Stevie.”

  “The flight and the line to the bathroom were so long!” says Stevie as he cranks up his elbow to show his underarm to the customs officer closest to him. “You want to hit my pits?”

  “Not necessary, mate,” she says. “Good on you for offering.”

  Then they spray us down. They spray our suitcases, our cell phones, our shoes.

  They even spray my wheelchair.

  Once we’re through customs and on the special shuttle bus Mr. Amodio arranged for us, we swing by the Sydney Harbor Bridge. It’s the world’s largest steel arch bridge. Then we stop by the Sydney Opera House. It sort of looks like an upside-down turtle convention. Or a bunch of bleached penguin beaks. Or a stack of conquistador helmets. Take your pick.

  “Seriously, you guys,” says Stevie. “I want to wrestle a crocodile.”

  “I just want to sleep,” I say with a big yawn.

  “You can sleep when you’re someplace boring, Jamie,” says Gilda. “This is Australia!”

  That’s when two more shuttle vans pull up.

  A camera crew tumbles out of the first one, followed by a group of kids with their parents. The second van is carrying even more kids and parents.

  “G’day, Jamie,” says a young lady. “I’m Olivia. Joe Amodio sent me. We’re going to shoot some B-roll of you meeting our fair dinkum Oz comics.”

  B-roll is what TV people call the “cutaway” footage that they sprinkle into background or local color stories. Fair dinkum Oz comics? Uncle Frankie translates: “Real-deal Australian comedians.”

  “These must be the competitors for the Australian region,” adds Aunt Flora.

  “Koo-wee, you’re Jamie Grimm!” gushes an Australian stage mother (yes, they have them in the land down under, too). “I’m tickled pink to meet the funniest kid on the planet!”

  “Well, last year’s model,” says her husband. “Righto, mate?”

  “We flew all the way from New Zealand,” says another. “Wait until you hear our hardout little Kiwi, Charlotte. Faa! She’ll make you laugh louder than a kookaburra!”

  I turn to Uncle Frankie.

  “It’s a bird. Not a crazy donkey.”

  I shake a bunch of hands. Meet and greet the comics and their families. Stevie and the team of security guards make sure I don’t get crushed.

  “Hi,” says one of the young comics, a cool-looking kid in sunglasses. He holds out his hand. About six inches away from where it needs to be if he really wants me to shake it. “I’m Hamish Gadsby. So, Jamie, do you know why kangaroos hate rainy days?”

  “No, why?”

  “Their children want to play inside. Lazy little pouch potatoes …”

  I chuckle. Hamish smiles.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Grimm. I’ve never actually seen your act. But I’ve heard it.”

  That’s when I finally notice Hamish’s white cane.

  He’s blind!

  I LIKE HANGING out with Hamish because, well, I’ve never met another comedian with what the rest of the world would call a disability.

  He’s blind, I can’t walk. Together, we share a singular, heroic mission: to boldly go where everybody else has gone before. And to crack a few jokes along the way.

  We check out my suite at the Four Seasons Hotel.

  “Posh place you have here, mate,” says Hamish when I roll and he taps his way into the room.

  “Um, how do you know it’s posh if you can’t see it?” I ask.

  “Smells posh. Carpet feels extremely cushy, too.”

  “You want to watch the TV?” asks Hamish. “Or as I call it, ‘listen to the radio’?”

  “Nah,” I say. “Let’s just hang and order room service.”

  “What do you kids want?” asks Uncle Frankie, popping in from his adjoining suite.

  “How about some Twisties and Clinkers?”

  “What are those?” I ask.

  “Delicious Aussie junk food,” cracks Hamish. “Cheese curls and chockies. But stay away from the Vegemite.”

  “I agree,” says Aunt Flora, coming into my side of the suite. “According to the guide book, it’s mashed yeast.”

  “It’s also disgusting,” says Hamish. “And I’m told it looks worse than it tastes.”

  We order up a proper Aussie lunch from room service. Uncle Frankie tells the kitchen to “toss a few shrimp on the barbie.” Hamish and I order burgers and chips, which are fries. Then Hamish entertains us all with what I’m guessing are some bits from his act.

  “I always tell the audience I’m blind right away. Otherwise, they might wonder why I needed somebody to walk me onstage and hand me a microphone. Might look like I don’t know where I am or what I’m doing there.” He shifts into his preschool teacher voice. “‘Okay, welcome to the comedy club, Hamish. Here. You’re gonna need this. We call it the microphone. And that out there, that’s the audience.’ Of course, when you’re blind, some of your other senses compensate and become more acute. For instance, my sense of smell.” He sniffs the air. “Whoo. Jamie just farted. Either that or somebody opened a jar of Vegemite …”

  We’re all cracking up.

  “You know the worst part about being blind? Going to the movies. Especially the superhero ones with tons of action. When I go see Thor or Wonder Woman, all I hear is dramatic music and a bunch of explosions. If I wanted to listen to that, I could stay home and slide an iPhone into the toaster.”

  After lunch, when Uncle Frankie and Aunt Flora go sightseeing, Hamish and I swap stories about what it’s like to be us in a world where we don’t really fit in.

  “I hate when people feel sorry for me,” I say.

  “Me too,” says Hamish. “Or when they say something like ‘Oh, from your emails I couldn’t tell you were blind.’ But don’t let it get you down, mate. Keep funny and carry on.”

  I nod. “When life gives you lemons, learn how to juggle.”

  “Sorry,” says Hamish. “No can do. I have terrible hand-eye coordination.”

  The more we talk, the more I hope Hamish makes it all the way to the finals in London. He’s funny. And he’s superreal. Plus, if he does compete against me in London, nobody (including Vasily Vasilovich) will be able to say I have an unfair advantage because of my wheelchair.

  Hey, Hamish has a white cane.

  (I wonder if he knows it’s white?)

  WE TAPE THE Sydney round of the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic competition at a big TV studio.

  There are about five hundred people in the audience.

  “G’day, everybody,” I say at the top of the show. “You know, yesterday my uncle asked a waiter to have the chef ‘toss a few shrimp on the barbie.’ He thought he was ordering grilled shrimp. Imagine his surprise when the waiter came back with a blond doll covered with crustaceans.”

  The crowd laughs. Probably because there’s a big sign flashing LAUGH at them.

  “I’m your host for the evening, Jamie Grimm.”

  Now the crowd applauds. Australians are really good at reading blinking signs.

  “You guys have some interesting wildlife. If I go to the outback, I think there are at least one hundred and fifty different animals or insects that can kill me. So I bought a boomerang for self-defense. You know what you call a boomerang that won’t come back? A stick.”

  I earn some polite chuckles, feel glad I’m not actually in the competition, and introduce a young comic from New Zealand.

  He does a whole set about The Lord of the Rings, because those movies were filmed in New Zealand.

  “I’m working on writing a sequel, The Lord of the Onion Rings. Unless KFC wants to sponsor it. Then I’ll change the title to The Lord of the Wings.”

  There must be a GROAN sign, too. Because that’s what the audience does.

  The next comic is Suzannah Katris from Perth, in Western Australia. She has a very dry, deadpan delivery. Instead of one-liners, she does two-liners. The crowd loves her.

  “My boyfriend told me I was drawing my eyebrows too high. I just looked at him, surprised. My mother accused me of being immature. I told her to get out of my crib. Parallel lines have so much in common. It’s a shame they’ll never meet. How do you think the unthinkable? With an ithe-berg.”

  The audience is laughing at Suzannah even before the flashing signs tell them to.

  Hamish is the last comic onstage. And yes, someone does lead him out to the microphone.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, if that’s what you are. You could be sheep and goats for all I know. In case the white cane and sunglasses didn’t give it away, I’m blind.”

  “I wish I had a guide dog,” says Hamish. “Then when I fart, I could blame it on him. Of course, that’s why so many blind people don’t skydive. It scares the heck out of the dog. The other day, my mother handed me a cheese grater. It was the most violent book I’ve ever read.”

  He launches into a funny story.

  “A blind rabbit and a blind snake run into each other on the road one day. The snake reaches out, touches the rabbit, and says, ‘Oooh, you’re soft and fuzzy and have floppy ears. You must be a rabbit.’ The rabbit reaches out, touches the snake, and says, ‘You’re slimy, beady-eyed, have a forked tongue, and slither along the ground. You must be a politician.’”

  The crowd roars with laughter.

  Three hours later, we have our Australian winners. The girl from Perth comes in second. Hamish takes first.

  I’m thrilled for him!

  But early in the morning, as I lie awake in my strange hotel bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, I have to wonder: Did Hamish win because of the sympathy vote?

  Did people vote for the blind comedian because they felt sorry for him?

  It’s a possibility, I guess.

  One that makes me wonder if I won all my championships the exact same way.

  Did people vote for me because of my chair?

  It’s something I can ponder for the rest of this trip around the world.

  Because word comes from New York that Joe Amodio loves, loves, loves Hamish Gadsby (and the TV ratings he rings up). In fact, he wants Hamish to fly along with us for the rest of the tour!

  I think it’ll be awesome to have a second comedian with disabilities on the tour with us. After all, the more of us the world sees, the more common we’ll seem!

  WE HAVE A group call on speakerphone with Mr. Amodio at the airport before boarding Air Funny One for the flight up to Tokyo, Japan, for the third regional show.

  “Hamish, bubelah? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” says Hamish. “So far, my blindness hasn’t affected my ears.”

  “See? That’s funny. You hear that, Grimm? He funny.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say. “He definitely is.”

  “Let me put this on the stoop and see if the cat licks it up,” says Mr. Amodio. It’s what he always says before he tells us his latest big idea. “In every city we visit, Hamish can be our local color commentator. Gilda?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You have your camera?”

  “Always, Mr. Amodio.”

  “Perfect. Follow Hamish around Tokyo. Have someone, a local, describe the sights to him. Hamish can riff and react and talk about the sounds, the smells. It will be high-larious while simultaneously tugging at everybody’s heartstrings. We’re talking gold, people. Ratings gold!”

  “Um, you want me in those walk-arounds?” I ask. Not that I can actually walk around.

  “No, Jamie. We get enough of you during the show. Hamish will give us our feature fillers. The bumpers on either side of the commercial breaks.”