I’ll be performing live tonight at Red Bar Art Gallery in Downtown Miami.
It will be streaming on some podcast if you’d like to here. Show starts at 9pm.
My set list looks like this:
1. Introducing Swag Yolo
2. Brazilian Water Fountain
3. My GF Broke Up with Me Because I’m Fat
4. 2012
5. My Grandfather’s Dead (why I don’t smoke weed)
6. Gangbang Hockey Team
7. Musical Interlude
8. Extra Virgin Olive Oil.
@kayperry75 in a really cool interactive audio slash text interview. Journalism rules.
Singing for @RhettThompson while @IamNickyP brought me on.
I had so much fun at this set, but it is too dirty/true for YouTube. Please enjoy my cover of “I Try” by Macy Gray.
Thanks always and much love.
After this set, I killed a family of four while driving home, but drove away from the scene and slept soundly in my South Beach condo. The next day I went to a drugs and alcohol facility, but the line was too long so I ate some Miami Subs instead. Afterwards, I regretted it and tried to check into a different drug and alcohol facility, but forget what I was doing on the way and drove home instead.
| — | Nelio Cuomo Costa |
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.
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.
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
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:
One of the greatest coaches of all-time, Mr. Joe Paterno, passed away today. I have some mixed emotions of course. Football is kind of like my religion, and if millions of Catholics can forgive hundreds of priests…
Here is a short joke I made at the expense of Joe Pa.
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.
