This dog drinks regularly from a drinking fountain, the kid just gets in the way. I want to buy this doggie.
Big thank you to Katie Hunt for approaching the child, it’d of been really weird if it was me.
The dogs are evolving, it will be a matter of days before they’re having sex with our women and riding our motorcycles!!!
Captain of Industry.
Don’t get drunk at a trade show and then flirt with one of the girls running it. You end up of proof of your stupidity on the website of the show.
Thanks American trade show circuit. You don’t even feel like reality.
Fake friends you see every once an awhile, the same people, all living in this carnival of commerce. It’s America alright, the real America. The real capitalist America.
(insert something deep that resolves all this.)
I’m in the Bahamas today, probably going to get stabbed.
@kayperry75 in a really cool interactive audio slash text interview. Journalism rules.
Listen to this NOW.
The Orwells - Feels Better to Fall
“the only time I feel fine, is when I’m dreaming.”
Well written lyrics and a fear of the real world. Feels like something stolen out of my own head.
My little brothers, signed by Autumn Tone Records.
Everyone have an amazing weekend, I’ll be at SpeakFriday’s in Miami drinking some tea and performing some stand-up comedy tonight.
Lesbian Party at LMNT or Fear and Loathing in a Miami Art Gallery by Nelio Cuomo Costa
Getting off the stage of some Ft. Lauderdale dive bar, and I had just bombed. The audience barely listened to my comedic ramblings. Nothing accentuates bombing more than just driving home and crawling into a little ball whilst reliving the experience in your head over and over.
With perfect timing, a friend invited me to a private lesbian birthday party at the Miami art gallery LMNT.
Having recently become acquainted with one of the talented resident artists there, her metal frame designs breathtaking, I wanted to delve further into the art community.
I walked into the party like I was walking onto a yacht.
Beautiful young hip Miami women were rubbing onto each other seductively celebrating, not one of them was interested in me.
It was exactly like stepping into a straight-club…
This is what I call broadening my horizons. Whilst grabbing a drink, a loud and intoxicated lesbian, elbowed in front of me and gave me a long session of smiling eye contact.
It wouldn’t be the first time I’d be mistaken for a girl.
I ordered my drink in the deepest tone of voice I could muster. She was not swayed from my presence.
“Grey Goose with a splash of cran.”
Ms. Eye Contact chimed in,
“and one for me.”
The bartender and I had met, so he shot me a glance.
I smirked and nodded yes as slowly as possible.
It would still be a few moments in the crowded art gallery for him to make our drink so she had me as a captive audience.
“Who are you?” she said.
“Nobody.” I replied, doing my best Don Draper impression.
“Well, you’re here, so you’re somebody.”
I started wondering who I was.
I’m a bad stand-up comedian. A failed writer. A displaced Chicagoan. A recently single, moderately interesting, mediocre boyfriend.
Saved by the drink’s arrival.
She took me by the hand, and continued the eye contact.
“Let’s go explore.”
Had I found the only girl who could have been interested in my penis?
Not likely.
We go into the back rooms of the gallery where all the resident artists have their studios. A male friend of mine was already back there starting trouble with the Head Lesbian, who’s party we were there for.
“It’s my birthday motherfucker.” she shrilled as she cut him in line and entered the bathroom accompanied by a tall black goddess. Being the birthday girl has it’s perks.
The lights were low, the resident artist I know, has her studio in the back.
Two girls were moaning from inside that studio. I wondered if my artist friend was aware of the extracurricular activities at the gallery. They had a shower in the bathroom there, two more girls were mutually fulfilling carnal needs inside.
I had only dreamed of places like this five years ago. Thank you Miami.
Eye Contact sat down on a bench and finished her drink. It felt like she was running a fever. She began to rub my shoulders with her right hand while starting up conversation with a tiny girl with a short haircut. The dark crowded hallway suddenly was empty except for the three of us.
Eye Contact took her hands off my shoulder and started making out with Haircut. I did my best trying to pretend that stuff like this happens to me every single day. They must have forgotten I was there.
She pulled Haircut’s shirt over her breasts and started the long delicate beginnings of lesbian foreplay. I watched, mostly to pick up some tips, while appearing as bored as possible and trying not to stare.
As this progressed, I wondered what I was supposed to do?
Should I have just taken my pants off and placed my penis in between the two?
Was this an invitation?
They laid across the same bench I was sitting on and Eye Contact began to bring Haircut’s pants down. The best I could do at this point was a half-moan/half-sigh. It caused the heavily drugged Haircut to look at me and notice they weren’t the only two in the dark hallway.
I again did my best Don Draper smirk, anything for her to believe that this was how I normally spent my Saturday nights.
As Eye Contact started to deliver sloppy licks over the outside or Haircut’s dark green panties, Head Lesbian and the gorgeous Black Goddess stumbled out of the bathroom, drenched with disheveled dresses draped ludely across their bodies. Not all of this moisture was water from the shower.
The sudden light spilling into the hallway crushed the fantasy moment for me.
Eye Contact looked over with a look of terror.
Head Lesbian was not happy.
“Who is this!?” she yelled.
I was trying to think of a witty response.
Eye Contact sneered,
“Her name is Emily.”
They were talking about Haircut. Suddenly, I started to see the situation for what it was. Head Lesbian and Eye Contact apparently were an item. Black Goddess was fair game (due to birthday rules?) and Haircut was not even invited to the party (neither was I, kind of.) Eye Contact was trying to make Head Lesbian jealous all along.
The first thought I had was,
“I’m really glad I didn’t try the “penis in between the lesbian trick” I was thinking of trying moments earlier.”
Haircut began pulling her pants up and shirt down while ignoring Head Lesbian.
Everyone was clearly on hard drugs, alcohol, and sex (except for myself as the heterosexual bystander).
After a short and belligerent argument, Eye Contact motioned me to follow her back into the main gallery area. It dawned on me that lesbian couples aren’t always as free and as perfect as I thought in my head. They have the same problems of jealousy and coexistence that straight couples have.
Once outside and into the general population, it occurred to me that I needed to go home, the sun would be rising soon and I had told myself I was going to get to church. At this point, I needed it. I embraced Eye Contact and kissed her as lovingly as I could muster. Haircut’s scent still lingered on her face.
Had I found some extra testosterone somewhere, I would have continued the night, but at the age of 27, I’m an old man.
I had said about twelve words since bombing at that dive bar.
Into the warm Sunday morning Miami air I went. Walking towards my car, it was 4am and the line to get into LMNT was long. Cute lesbians in short black dresses, few older than 22 years old were plentiful.
It hit me,
Forget the Miami comedy scene, I should learn how to paint.
I was at Wal-Mart in Jacksonville yesterday and saw this.
Point me back to South Beach and the thousands of spring breakers dancing to Skrillex and trying ecstacy for the first time.
Who am I kidding… I fucking LOVE RAMEN!!!! AAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!
This happened to me a few years ago:
Worst Little Barbecue Joint in Arkansas: An Adventure in Masculinity
I try new things. When approached with trying new restaurants and doing new things, I take a daring 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.
One of the best characters in “Return of the Jedi.”
Laziest naming of a home planet EVER.
He’s a fucking SQUID alien, and George Lucas called his home planet
MON CALAMARI
So again,
Fuck you George Lucas.
Fuck you.
“Damn, my nose is killing me today for some reason.”
Comedian Nelio Cuomo Costa at the South Beach Comedy Festival
See him tomorrow at the Ft. Lauderdale Hard Rock Improv at 7pm where he’ll talk about things you already read on Neldeezy.com!
Like him on Facebook here:
“Listen up forefathers, I’m not your son.”
The new single, “Who Needs You” from the “The Orwells” is not currently slated to be released on any album.
This new song takes the band in lyrical territory that I had failed to see previously. A simple, yet eloquent, “screw you” to recent U.S. political agenda masked by a radio-friendly melody and clap along.
“I said, “No, Thank you. Dear old Uncle Sam.”
A statement for a generation of youths too young to remember pre-9/11 America.
See The Orwells perform on March 15th at SXSW in Austin, most definitely the best new band to keep an eye on, but don’t take my word on it, listen yourselves:
More about the Orwells:
http://www.facebook.com/theorwellsband
http://theteenagehead.com/blog/2011/10/the-orwells-remember-when-third-lp/
http://theteenagehead.com/blog/2011/12/the-orwells-mallrats-official-music-video/
http://www.myoldkentuckyblog.com/?p=21549
http://www.weallwantsomeone.org/2011/11/16/the-orwells-halloween-all-year/
http://yvynyl.tumblr.com/post/14917797034/the-orwells-mallrats-la-la-la-not-gonna-lie
I turned back to look at him and he’d already shown his manhood to the South Beach afternoon.
Never bet with an Irishmen who’s had more than a few pints of Guiness.
Happy Leap Day everybody.
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
I just wanted to confuse my little brothers even more. Happy Hanukkah!
Christmas is like watching The Dark Knight, and Hanukkah is like watching eight episodes of Batman: The Animated Series.
They’re both great!
Her hands brush the space under my knees. I’m still quite ticklish in my rarely touched areas.
I begin to wish their was an afterlife for the first time since I was a child, mostly so whichever of my deadbeat asshole of a family chose to move my semi-sentient body to a hospital twenty miles away from the beach can hear my unearthly bitching and complaining for a portion of an eternity.
Thank god for CraigsList.
My breathing was more labored by the minute and at this point.
I had given my erotic worker the instruction to fill a kiddie pool somewhere private as close to the hospital as possible.
(what I want to die in, as a last resort)
She thought I had an aqua fetish and needed to be back at the hospital before six o’clock, which wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. I asked her to fill the child’s pool with lukewarm water.
This was going to cost more than I’d thought, considering recent inflation, but it’d be less than my wedding, and absolutely more important.
No nurses were around. You really can’t find good healthcare anymore. I peered from my window to see her pimp’s suped up Acura. I began to wonder if he was Asian too.
I reach underneath my left arm and rip my pic line out. It’s a weird feeling that a tiny string had been inside me. I wonder if the prostitute could relate.
I slide my ass off the side of the bed and my feet hit the ice cold floor. Why anybody would die in this cold death machine continues to baffle me.
Sneaking into bars, concerts, and strip clubs whilst underage and not wanting to pay cover, had trained me in looking completely and utterly that I belong. This will mean no one will stop me from getting into that god damn Acura.
As the sliding doors opened, the warm Florida breeze bounced off my face. It was a hot breeze. This was a perfect day to go.
She wasn’t Asian, but she wore enough mascara to seem like it.
He wasn’t Asian, but he drove a suped up Acura.
(generally what pimps drive)
The pimp apparently wasn’t exactly briefed thoroughly of what was going on.
I began to wonder if they were just going to rob me and dump me on the side of the highway.
Even in my frail state, I was the most dangerous person in the car. No matter what I did, I was going to die today.
A man who’s going to return to the universal ether has no problem jamming a pen into some twenty year old eastern European pimp’s neck or use my last few ounces of strength to kick a prostitute out of a moving vehicle.
At this point, I don’t really need to give a fuck anymore.
But I had a mission, and I’d prefer everybody be cool and let me die how I wanna die. God knows my ungrateful family couldn’t focus for one fucking second about anyone but themselves to let me die my own way.
In minutes, we were in the backyard of some shitty house somewhere in Broward. I probably could have made it to the beach.
If only I would have set my “Fast Withdrawal Preferences” on my Bank of America ATM card, I would have had time to fucking rent an umbrella and stop at Wet Willies.
So it goes.
As I entered the house, EuroPimp immediately began to count my money. No manners.
The Prositute led me to the backyard where the pool I requested had been waiting for me. I wouldn’t have been around long enough to watch her inflate and fill it. I respect people that come prepared.
I remove my hospital gown and the pair of stained white underwear briefs riding up on my asshole. I look down on my wrinkled frail body and one of my final memories flow into my brain.
It was with a girl named Jenny who had lived near me. We were fourteen years old and in my backyard. In front, a block party loudly crashed through the early September night. It was just a kiss, but it somehow seemed more important than the vast number of sexual partners and the following decades of sexual exploration.
It must have been the kiddie pool.
Completely nude now, I fall back, hands pointing in opposite directions, it startles the prostitute. The water splashes back at her. She bends forward in a failed attempt to cushion my landing.
Her hands rubs over the scars on my left kneecap and then under the knee itself. It tickles and I wonder if their is an afterlife.
Their are more questions that enter my head. The Prostitute and EuroPimp will probably bury me in this backyard.
Warm water is how we were brought here. Why wouldn’t it be the way we go out. As breathing becomes harder, I start wondering when the DMT was going to flood my brain. I’d figure it start by now.
I start to go, waiving the prostitute off. This is the first time I clued her in that this isn’t just another deviant fetish of mine.
You could say that this was my final joke. One more prank for the road.
“Tricked you! Now I’m going to die and you’re responsible for disposing of a body! Ha Ha!”
Petty prejudices and conceptions are gone, as well as most of the memories I chose to never let go. All things suddenly become illuminated.
