For a week while in college, I visited the country of my mother’s ancestors.

The beauty, culture, and food of Italy cannot be matched anywhere in the universe, I laugh in the face of brick oven pizza purveyors around South Beach who claim to serve “authentic Neapolitan cuisine.”

My trips’ days and afternoons were filled with museums, moderate drug use, and carbohydrates.

Its nights, accompanied by two of my dorm mates, were filled with seedy bars, absinthe, heavy drug use, and copious amounts of flirting with the opposite sex.

The problem was that, without fail, we met girls from Chicago every single night for the first nine days of our trip.

I didn’t travel to Italy, to just flirt with some fake guidette wannabe Italians (I had my fair share waiting for me back home).

 I wanted to couple with real beautiful Italian women (Hygiene aside).

One of the last nights we were there, I decreed we were going to find these REAL women by trolling around the REAL Rome.

The ROB ME Rome.

The Rome without Bidets.

The Rome that would make Caesar Augustus cry out in shame/pleasure.

We were three American boys walking through the bad parts of Rome, with a chip on our shoulders and an X-Rated goal in our hearts.

Amazingly, an old man wearing a suit and a bowtie appears seemingly out of the shadows and greets us casually. 

Apparently God (or more likely the Devil) had materialized this geriatric traveler of time and space to facilitate our adolescent hunger for a Mediterranean goddess.

With a sideways grin and no distinguishable accent, he stated,

“You boys look like you want some fun, follow me.”

We were ecstatic.

Only great things can happen when you follow a mysterious old man:

That’s how I got my first bicycle,

and my first sexual experience…

We begin to follow.

He takes us to what looks like a bar, but with no signs or literature outside saying it was.

A flap opened in the door, and a man peers out to the street.

I was half expecting him to tell us that The Wizard of Oz can’t see us today, and that we’d be forced to drink absinthe until passing out in an alley for the fourth night in a row.

No words were spoken but the man in the bar let us in.

Upon entry, I had realized my prayers had been fulfilled.

Twelve gorgeous, classy looking, middle aged women were proportionately scattered throughout the place.

Not a single man in sight, except for my two dorm mates and the bow tied Demon/Angel who sauntered towards the back of the bar.

We had hit the jackpot.

As we giddily shook in anticipation, we all collectively realized that “high fiving” and “screaming in joy” was making us look like the young college tourists we were and surely was blowing any chance of laying in bed with a middle aged sexual dynamo born in one of the oldest Republics known to man.

Trying to seem mature and cool, I order a classy drink for me and my cohorts,

Give her my debit card, because I figured we’d be buying a few drinks for the ladies as we introduced ourselves.

When I received the bill, each drink was 150 Euros

Which is like $225 American…

Why did I order a White Russian?

Is there a milk shortage in Rome?

Were they jacking us because we were stupid tourists from Chicago?

I sat there looking at the bill and cursing myself for ever watching “The Big Lebowski!”

Why do I have all these stupid ideas?

 The female bartender saw my shock and slides up next to me,

She quietly and seductively whispers in my ear,

“Which girl do you want? 

I give her a blank stare, trying to calculate a perfect answer, while wanting desperately to scream out,

“ALL OF THEM!”

While I was stumbling with the thought, she spoke again.

“For one drink, you can have sex with one of the girls, but for anal or something weird, you need to buy another drink.”

I finally realized what kind of establishment I was at…

So I went to buy a double vodka and cranberry.

Suddenly the most expensive drink I’d ever purchased became one of the best values in Europe!

My dorm mate suddenly jumps in with a realization, blurting out.

“Dude, I think this place is a whorehouse.”

I was way ahead of him at that point, and acted confused.

He furrowed his brow in disgust,

“Do we look like guys who need to pay for sex?”

Almost too quickly, I answered him.

“Yes.  I look like a guy who needs to pay for sex.”

He placed his drink on the bar and motioned for us to leave, my first thought being,

“Fine, two more for me.”

As they moved towards the door, my second thought was,

“I live in a dorm with these guys.”

This story was surely going to be recounted to the residents of my dorm probably for months and possibly years to come, and the last thing I wanted was for the end of the story to be,

“Yeah, me and Dan left, but Nelio bought the whole bar a round of Irish Car Bombs and went to town on every hooker in a thirty foot radius.”

Girls who were already hesitant to get near my crotch would have the final reason to stop hooking up with me, especially since it’s what their subconscious had been telling them the entire time.

It was hard enough for me to get laid in college without being labeled

“That Prostitute Guy.”

So I left with my crew, smiling and nodding at each beautiful and distinguished prostitute face.  The things those women could have taught me.

I did manage to get “450 Euros” in “store credit” if I ever find myself in Rome and wishing for a mysterious old man in a bowtie to save me from the prison of rules called western society.

Thanks so much for reading please like my Comedian Facebook Page:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Nelio/218652544824256

and message me for free tickets for my performance at the Hard Rock Improv in Ft. Lauderdale on March 7th

This is me at the Miami Improv, telling the following stories:

Youth Sports (Might Duck Edition)

Child Porn Airplane

Dry Humping

Extra Virgin Olive Oil

How I Caused 9/11.

Have a Merry Christmas and thank you for watching and supporting my stand-up comedy career.

I figured out the Dexter twist more than a month ago.

A portion of my stand-up comedy set at the Miami Improv last month.

I owe everything I’ve ever done to somebody else.  Thanks for making it so fun.

This is a real product.  Someone is going to make a lot of money off of fulfilling the need to store and eat our french fries while driving.

America.

Nelio Cuomo Costa - The Man

Working on new music, here is some OLD music from college.  I used to be a depressed asshole who smoked a ton of pot and had an issue about working for “The Man.”

Now I wake up and have over 100 employees reporting to me and I’m pretty sure a few of them think of me in the same way.  I’m going to hole myself into my South Beach condo this weekend and write and record a ton of new music.

As you can see, my style has changed a great deal, but hopefully the soul remains.

Everyone make sure you love everyone else today.

I try new things.  When approached with trying new restaurants and doing new things, I take a dare attitude and jump in headfirst.

This time, I was defeated.

Ray’s barbecue in eastern Arkansas was the worst fucking restaurant I’ve ever eaten at in the United States of America.

Check that, in the entire world.

I’ve lived in Brazil, I’ve eaten in the south side of Chicago, I’ve eaten in poor people’s homes in Italy, and I’ve never eaten in a dirtier place in my life then Ray’s Fucking WORLD FAMOUS Barbecue.

Am I being too tough on this place?  Allow me to explain.

I woke up this Saturday morning, after a very nice night in Memphis and a pretty decent interview with a prospective employee and decided to check out some of the local flavor.  The place pictured above seemed perfect.  I look for gems just like this all around the country, and am lucky to have met some amazing people in the process.

I strolled into the shack, located in the middle of nowhere, on the side of the road and I felt all young and hip, still wearing a canali suit with a light blue tie. 

The place smelled like somebody fucking died in there.  No, I mean like somebody had died in there this afternoon and nobody cleaned up the fucking body yet.

Having braved some inhumane eating conditions previously, I decided to do my best and order some barbecue anyway.

I took my paper plate filled with lumps of what could have been any animal in the universe, baked beans, and oddly yellow potato salad.  I mean yellow like a banana.  I filled my cup with “Unsweetened Tea” and sat down.

Two very large women were sitting as the same table as myself and had stopped talking since I entered.  Everyone in the place just sat there looking at me.

A little girl, about eleven years old came in and saw me and stopped.  She stopped and looked at me.  She wore a shirt that said, “I Speak Arkansaw.”

“Good news!” I thought to myself.

I began to slowly eat.  I wanted to savor the flavor and enjoy the moment.  I had already decided this was the last time I was going to eat in a roadside barbecue place in the south.

“Honey, y’all look real familiar.  Do I know you from the TV?”

I smiled, for some reason, my face constantly warrants this response.  I’ve resigned it to the fact that I look like a cross between Andy Milonakis and the fat kid from Drake and Josh before he simply became the second skinny kid from Drake and Josh.

“No ma’am.”  I replied, trying to fit in.  I smiled widely at her.

At that very moment a large commotion happened in the kitchen.  I swear this is the god’s honest truth.  Some sort of animal had jumped out from the back of the stove and nobody wanted to kill it.  Everyone just screamed about it for like five minutes.  Every few seconds, another labored yelp would come from one of the employees.  What if I had been a health inspector?

The customers didn’t think this was at all out of the ordinary so I tried to fit in.  One woman gave me a knowing look and chuckled.  I went along eating.  I mistakenly took a sip out of my tea and immediately fell into shock.

It tasted as if somebody’s grandmother had just pissed directly in my mouth.  I mean directly from the source, with the appropriate temperature and taste.  No one had changed the tea in that particular container for at least nine weeks.  A combination of the barbecue, and the smell, and the yelling cooks and now the rancid old lady piss of iced tea had gotten the best of me.  I stood up, leaving the food at the cafeteria-style table and walked out of the restaurant.  Leaving behind me looks of shock and concern.

I ended up spitting up iced tea and got some on my suit.  I turned around and angrily gave the middle finger in the general direction of the restaurant to no one in particular.

“Fuck you!”

I became aware of the barbecue and potato salad entering my system.  Not knowing if it was actually making me sick or if my own mind had caused the sick feeling I began to feel.

I slammed the door of my rental car and gave the middle finger one last time to my rear view mirror.  If a Ray actually exists, I wish to spit his rancid geriatric piss iced tea directly in his face.

But as a business owner, I know that these things are difficult to keep up with, and maybe Ray has to deal with sick family members or something so I personally give him a break, but I’m not sure if I can ever eat barbecue again.

As I drove back into Memphis I started to wonder if the problem wasn’t “Ray’s WORLD FAMOUS” barbecue, or that I didn’t really “taste the difference.”

Maybe the problem is that I can’t “man up” and enjoy the eccentricity that makes America and the surrounding world great…

or

Fuck Ray and his shitty rat infested motherfucking barbecue.

Strolling around meeting customers yesterday in the DC area when I stumbled upon this little baby.

So the question has to be,

Why did the Afghan Bakery go out of business?

I’m not really sure how White Castle could trademark the word “Sack.”

Every time I explain how I like to be blown I’m supposed to be sending a royalty check to White Castle?  Fuck that.

I try new things.  When approached with trying new restaurants and doing new things, I take a dare attitude and jump in headfirst.

This time, I was defeated.

Ray’s barbecue in eastern Arkansas was the worst fucking restaurant I’ve ever eaten at in the United States of America.

Check that, in the entire world.

I’ve lived in Brazil, I’ve eaten in the south side of Chicago, I’ve eaten in poor people’s homes in Italy, and I’ve never eaten in a dirtier place in my life then Ray’s Fucking WORLD FAMOUS Barbecue.

Am I being too tough on this place?  Allow me to explain.

I woke up this Saturday morning, after a very nice night in Memphis and a pretty decent interview with a prospective employee and decided to check out some of the local flavor.  The place pictured above seemed perfect.  I look for gems just like this all around the country, and am lucky to have met some amazing people in the process.

I strolled into the shack, located in the middle of nowhere, on the side of the road and I felt all young and hip, still wearing a canali suit with a light blue tie. 

The place smelled like somebody fucking died in there.  No, I mean like somebody had died in there this afternoon and nobody cleaned up the fucking body yet.

Having braved some inhumane eating conditions previously, I decided to do my best and order some barbecue anyway.

I took my paper plate filled with lumps of what could have been any animal in the universe, baked beans, and oddly yellow potato salad.  I mean yellow like a banana.  I filled my cup with “Unsweetened Tea” and sat down.

Two very large women were sitting as the same table as myself and had stopped talking since I entered.  Everyone in the place just sat there looking at me.

A little girl, about eleven years old came in and saw me and stopped.  She stopped and looked at me.  She wore a shirt that said, “I Speak Arkansaw.”

“Good news!” I thought to myself.

I began to slowly eat.  I wanted to savor the flavor and enjoy the moment.  I had already decided this was the last time I was going to eat in a roadside barbecue place in the south.

“Honey, y’all look real familiar.  Do I know you from the TV?”

I smiled, for some reason, my face constantly warrants this response.  I’ve resigned it to the fact that I look like a cross between Andy Milonakis and the fat kid from Drake and Josh before he simply became the second skinny kid from Drake and Josh.

“No ma’am.”  I replied, trying to fit in.  I smiled widely at her.

At that very moment a large commotion happened in the kitchen.  I swear this is the god’s honest truth.  Some sort of animal had jumped out from the back of the stove and nobody wanted to kill it.  Everyone just screamed about it for like five minutes.  Every few seconds, another labored yelp would come from one of the employees.  What if I had been a health inspector?

The customers didn’t think this was at all out of the ordinary so I tried to fit in.  One woman gave me a knowing look and chuckled.  I went along eating.  I mistakenly took a sip out of my tea and immediately fell into shock.

It tasted as if somebody’s grandmother had just pissed directly in my mouth.  I mean directly from the source, with the appropriate temperature and taste.  No one had changed the tea in that particular container for at least nine weeks.  A combination of the barbecue, and the smell, and the yelling cooks and now the rancid old lady piss of iced tea had gotten the best of me.  I stood up, leaving the food at the cafeteria-style table and walked out of the restaurant.  Leaving behind me looks of shock and concern.

I ended up spitting up iced tea and got some on my suit.  I turned around and angrily gave the middle finger in the general direction of the restaurant to no one in particular.

“Fuck you!”

I became aware of the barbecue and potato salad entering my system.  Not knowing if it was actually making me sick or if my own mind had caused the sick feeling I began to feel.

I slammed the door of my rental car and gave the middle finger one last time to my rear view mirror.  If a Ray actually exists, I wish to spit his rancid geriatric piss iced tea directly in his face.

But as a business owner, I know that these things are difficult to keep up with, and maybe Ray has to deal with sick family members or something so I personally give him a break, but I’m not sure if I can ever eat barbecue again.

As I drove back into Memphis I started to wonder if the problem wasn’t “Ray’s WORLD FAMOUS” barbecue, or that I didn’t really “taste the difference.”

Maybe the problem is that I can’t “man up” and enjoy the eccentricity that makes America and the surrounding world great…

or

Fuck Ray and his shitty rat infested motherfucking barbecue.

I wrote a really cute poem here, but I erased it because my poetry embarrasses me.

Here is a sneak peak of my newly remodeled condo unit’s granite kitchen countertops.

This is the color the guy chooses when he can have anything in the world.  Just thought I’d like you all to know what it is.

This is a piss-poor explanation on why my Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger didn’t have any fucking tomatoes on it.

In remembrance of the coldest winter in recent Florida history, I present this stupid Wendy’s excuse for no tomatoes thingy…

Winter of 2009…  I survived.