Masturbation.

This was the face of my time spent alone as an adolescent.

Fuck you modern society.

Fuck you.

at Coverings in Orlando tonight, somewhere getting drunk with a client or two.

My hotel has special parking for hybrid cars.

Who loves Hybrids?

The greatest Disney movie is Lion King.

I’m sure we all agree.

That being said, I always wondered something about the Nala and Simba relationship.

“The pride consists of five or six related females, their cubs of both sexes, and one or two males who mate with the adult females.”

So we had Mustafa, King of the Pride etc, and we have Scar, villian and Mustafa’s brother (cough, Hamlet, cough.)

So chances are…  that Mustafa was the one who knocked up Nala’s mom, either that or it could have been Scar, but I think that subject would have been broached if that was the case…

Which explains why Simba was so awkward.

Listen to this NOW!

The Orwells - Lays at Rest

The first time I heard this song, I thought about being belittled by an ex-girlfriend and just saying “I’m over it.”

But after repeated listening, I realize it’s much deeper than that.  I’m writing this from a hotel room in Jacksonville, where I’ll go and visit clients tomorrow, and hopefully get on stage for some stand-up comedy.

One of the best songs on the album “Remember When.”

“I just don’t know just where I’m going…”

Where are we in all our lives?  Are we all dead?

I was visiting customers in Miami and saw this. 

You’d think it’s just a nickname, but this chick came out and looked at my car, then busted out a big floppy penis!

C’mon Miami, fool me twice!

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.

The Orwells are sponsored by Taco Bell and the new Dorito Taco.

After all the money and time I’ve spent in the Taco Bell drive thru at 3am…

They’ve payed me back.

WATCH THE ORWELLS LIVE FROM SXSW in EXACTLY ONE HOUR.

4:15pm Central Time/ 5:15 pm for East Coasters

This is the link.

http://new.livestream.com/hypehotel/aquariumdrunkard

They’re young, loud, and they’re the anti-Jonas brothers.

Re-post and tell your friends and loved ones, NOW!

Do it!   Do it, do it, do it, NOWWWW!!!!

www.TheOrwells.com

Just got home from a comedy show and I’ve had an incredible amount of alcohol to drink.

When you look up into a room full of hundreds of people, and they’re hanging on the next words you’re going to say, or you’re holding yourself back from speaking because their laughing at your last punchline and you don’t want to interrupt.

It’s like being born.  It’s like being fucked again for the first time.

I don’t feel like I deserve it.  I feel like I should purposely ruin the moment so that all the people that I’ve wronged don’t see that this is better than most anything.

And it’s something that keeps me vertical.

That means I’ll be on stage 2 to 3 times next week and the week after that.

When I bomb, I look back at that one moment where I hold the audience’s pleasure, when they want to know who I am.  It’s not about fame, it’s about feeling at one with each and every person, and sharing their experience.

I can feel them too.

Then I just say “fuck it.”

I’m just telling jokes.

Paris Hilton for Men.

Got it for free, so dont judge.

Smells like vagina and cocaine (kind of bleachy)

The smell burns the back of your throat, but the burn is so good… oh so good.

Ten years ago, I had sex for the first time. 

After all this time, I still remain completely clueless on how to please a woman.

My partner was a gorgeous (out of my league, which isn’t hard) sixteen year old and I was head over heels in love.  Like murder suicide kind of in love.

Probably the last sixteen year-old I’m ever going to have sex with.

Probably.

My parents would let her sleep in my room, in my bed, almost every single night and not say a thing.

I thought they were naive, or stupid, but they just figured it was the best I ever was going to get, and they were right.

Her and I were catholic, so we had an incredible amount of guilt about having sex, so for the first six months we’d pretend to be sleeping and just dry-hump for hours.  Probably so we could maintain plausible deny-ability.

Now, dry-humping is fine for a girl, but prolonged rubbing, over clothes in the pelvic region is hell on Earth for a guy.  If you ever wonder why a guy’s penis has a crazy amount of curve towards his torso, he’s spent most of his youth dry-humping adolescent girls in terror.

I got a girlfriend and suddenly orgasm WAY LESS.

And I was the idiot, because it took me three months before I started wearing sweatpants, I was wearing JEANS the entire time.

The sound of denim rubbing up next to each other still cause me to scream in terror.

To this day, I have a zipper scar on my scrotum that says DKNY.

Luckily, it’s over the part of your balls that looks like it’s been sewn together with a needle and thread.  What’s with that?

God needed a needle and thread to keep your testicles inside your body?  It’s so weird.

Everyone else has that, right?  It wasn’t some sort of accident my parents never told me about?

So after six months of dryhumping, we finally decide to have sex.  But under one condition.

She still wanted to be a virgin for God…

so we had to have sex in her ass.

…

Which was fine for me, I was just glad that the catholic faith had such an amazing loophole (and what a hole).

God doesn’t see anal sex.

…

Which means Jerry Sandusky is going straight to heaven.

The logic of the situation had almost exploded my mind, but I really wanted to lose my virginity so I wasn’t about to start arguing with her.

I was experimenting with lubrication for years already by myself and I had nothing in my room that would facilitate her request.

So at 3am in the morning, I tip-toed to the kitchen looking for a lubricant to dissolve my v-card.  Having no time to lose, I was completely nude, and with a bouncing erection that was stealing most of the blood originally allotted for my brain.

Opening the fridge, I saw a container of cake frosting.

Cake frosting would’ve worked perfectly, but the only flavor my parents had bought was chocolate.

Visually speaking, having anal sex with chocolate frosting..

Not what I was going for (at least for the first time.)

At this point, I was almost ready to just pass out out of sexual frustration, when I remembered.

We had a big can of olive oil underneath my sink.

So I grab a cereal bowl, because I wasn’t just going to poor the olive oil into her anal cavity like she’s a Mazda Miata.  I had a deep love and respect for her, I wanted it to be as beautiful a moment as possible, and me on both of my knees, pouring copious amounts of olive oil into her anus would not be characterized as a “beautiful moment.”

I reach under my sink, and I get a message from god:

“Extra Virgin” Olive Oil.

How right they were.

As I turned back to my room to finally lose my virginity.

My mother was standing at the doorway, she had seen the whole thing.

Check out my standup act if I’m ever near you, and like my new page:

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

‘Then something astonishing happened. One day, early in the morning, thin columns of white smoke were seen to be coming out of the tops of the tall chimneys of the factory! People in the town stopped and stared. “What’s going on?” they cried. “Someone’s lit the furnaces! Mr Wonka must be opening up again!”

I have a funny Etta James story that’s 100% true.

I buy Pavilion tickets at Rivinia for my Cuban ex-girlfriend, reap the full benefits for about six weeks. Morning of, we pack lunches, get a blanket, plan a really romantic evening.

She was excited, to put it into context, she bought me a commitment ring that says “At Last” and the date we started dating.

Made out for the first time to “At Last.” Especially meaningful.
Drive an hour to Rivinia, listen to Etta the entire time. Life could not have been better.

We get to Rivinia,

I had forgotten the motherfucking tickets.

Thank you Etta James for CLEARLY exemplifying my abilities as a lover and provider.

Got crazy at Redbar last month.

“Everyone is getting crazy about December 2012, people are building shelters.

But I’m not 100% we should be taking spiritual direction from ancient Mexicans.  I mean, I’m hispanic, we’re full of shit.  Google is our worst enemy.

Let me know when the Germans predict the apocalypse, I’ll stop paying my mortgage today.”

Nelio Cuomo Costa, Terrible Stand-Up Comedian

NelioCosta.com