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!!!
| — | Nelio Cuomo Costa |
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.
My little brother Raggy went to our first Wrestlemania together in Miami.
Nostalgia abound, my uncle Mark used to have me over for overpriced pay-per-views, which I would daydream about for an entire week before. Wondering whether or not Bret Hart would beat his latest opponent.
Then during the event itself, my uncle Mark would boo Bret Hart and cheer the bad guys.
EVERY. FUCKING. TIME.
I took it personally, I didn’t understand why. I couldn’t stand anyone not cheering for the Excellence in Execution. It was heresy.
Then yesterday, as I booed John Cena heavily as he told the young audience to,
“Never give up.”
I saw my brother Raggy and he was paying full attention. He was accepting his message to Rise Above Hate, and to work hard and eat your vitamins and say your prayers.
It hit me that I had become my uncle Mark. Cheering the bad guys because I realize in this world bad guys don’t really exist. It’s all more of a shade of grey, and that people’s personal selfish motives tend to designate what they do. The system we live in creates the “Good” and “Bad” guys in our society.
And when John Cena lost, I looked over and Raggy had a tear in his eye.
I wanted to pick him up and console him, to tell him that everything is going to be fine for John Cena.
But instead I just started taunting him loudly with a group of adults that were nearby…
Pro Wrestling can lead to some of the realest moments after all…
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!
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.
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.
Just saw Phantom Menace again, and was reminded of something.
When they leave Anakin’s mom in Tattooine, why didn’t they go back like a month or year later and buy her freedom? Later on, Anakin is having sex with a fucking senator, nobody could swing freeing ONE slave who happened to be the mother of the most powerful jedi in the universe???
It would have avoided him having to go back and kill the sand people and turning to the dark side.
Fuck you George Lucas
Fuck you.
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:
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.
This is me at Stage 84 in Davie. I love me a little bit of women vs. man comedy. Thanks for everyone who constantly supports my stand-up.
“Parade. I’d rather have Aids.”
and I remembered I was watching an extremely boring parade and this was how I was going to remember the dream.
But what kind of fucked up statement is that?
But it’s true, parades fucking suck. It’s more fun to look outside at the street when no parade is going on. On my street, you can watch a crackhead smoke crack and shake uncontrollably. Way more fun than watching a parade.
Now, last night I went to a club and their was a rumor that a dude had an Aids infected needle and was going to poke somebody. I’m not exactly sure why we stayed in the club, but the first thing I thought was,
“I’d watch fifty fucking parades before I got stuck with that motherfucking needle. Fuck that.”
Bright Eyes - Poison Oak
On my way to Orlando and feeling a little Bright Eyes blue.
“Now I’m drunk as hell on a piano bench, and when I press the keys, It all gets reversed, the sound of loneliness makes me happier”
The road gets more lonely every single day.
