I'M BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN!!!!

I'm back!

I'm back in the saddle again!

I'm back!

I'm back in the saddle again!

 

Those lyrics are from a pretty sexual Aerosmith song. I don’t want to mislead any one and make you believe that I’ve been sexually active. That is not the case. If it were the case I wouldn’t have anything to be writing about. I’m back to the blog and I keep hearing that in my head so that’s why I posted it.

 

I would apologize for not writing but let’s just get to the good stuff, yeah? This is the “gem” I promised a while back. The time has come. When I first moved to LA I did not know many people, but through my one friend, I quickly became friends with a small group of people that I hung out with a lot. It was my friend Nick (former editor of Klean Up Your Act) and then three girls. We hung out and went drinking together almost every weekend.

 

At first, it was cool and we were all just friends. After a while though, I hung out with this one girl more and more. As we spent more time together I began to develop some feelings for this girl. I hung out with her a lot in one on one situations but never did any thing about how I felt because…I’m a puss. We all know that already, so no big deal.

 

One weekend, after about a month of not making a move, it was her friend’s birthday. Nick, these two girls, and myself, all went to a bar to celebrate. We had plenty of drinks and after a while I finally grew some balls. I some how managed to get the girl that I like I, alone on a couch, while our other two friends were on the dance floor.

 

It’s just she and I. I have my arm around her, trying to play it cool. I think to myself, “Man up, BJ! Just do it!” We all know what a ladies man I am, so I look at her in the eyes and say something smooth. I believe it was something like, “I’m sorry I didn’t want to try to make a move on you while I was drunk, but oh well.” AAAAAAnd I lean in for a kiss! She turned her head in the opposite direction faster then what I thought humanly possible. She was out of there and wanted nothing to do with what I was offering. But can you blame her?

 

She was very nice about everything. She began to apologize and tell me she was sorry and that she didn’t feel that way about me. I said it was cool and that I totally understood.

 

Now you would think my rejection story would end here. Wrong. WRONG! As some may know, I have a twitter account! What do I do RIGHT after this all goes down? I turn to my phone and tweet. And I quote, “Rejected lol.” That’s right, I got rejected and wanted to let the world know it! Don’t worry, the story doe not end here!

 

We are still sitting next to each other, my arm still around her, and she is trying to make things less awkward for us. Soooooo what does she do? She reaches for her blackberry and goes on twitter. You’ll never guess what she saw! REJECTED LOL. She simply turns to me and says, “I just wanted to let you know I HATE YOU! Why would you do that?” I die laughing. It was really funny to me. I totally forgot she could get twitter on her phone. I can’t really remember how she reacted but I’m guessing it wasn’t good.

 

Oh but wait, there is more! Nick and friend who are on the dance floor also have twitter! Both of their phones go off simultaneously. They stop what they are doing, check their phones, look at each other, and then look over to us sitting on the couch! I do not know what went through their mind but I know they both found it hilarious.

 

The night ended and we went home. I spoke with her (through text message) and cleared the air. We remained friends and we are still friends to this day. “Rejected lol” will live on forever amongst our group of friends and I hope it is something that you too will start to use too.

 

Now I’ll apologize and you can stop reading if you want. Sorry I haven’t been writing much. My final semester at college was coming to a close, I needed to find a job, and try to make things happen so I can stay in LA so I’ve been stressed and pretty busy. Good news though, I found a job and will remain in LA and will keep providing you with more stories about my failures. I’m going to write two more posts now but will be posting them in the next couple days so you are not overwhelmed.

 

Please write comments! Tell me what a tool I am!

 

 

Love Always,

BJ

 

PS

I’m tired and don’t want to proof read. I know my grammar is terrible but deal with it. I wanted to make sure this got up for everyone at work tomorrow. I’ll correct it over time.

This/Is/Why/You/Suck

WRITTEN BY: Greg

My apologies, it has been dumb long. Its hard to be legit, and still pay your rent. Work is a hell of a drug.

A month or two into living at my current apartment (and with a month left) I can see why people give me awkward stares about having an apartment in Downtown LA. To put it simply, this area has no fucking clue what it wants to be. On the same block as one another, there exists A) a low-income housing unit and B) a nightclub that I've seen three Bentleys and a Maserati outside of just this past week alone. Some buildings are going for the super-swank SoHo Luxury Loft effect, while others are just pumped to have windows that weren't broken yet. Makes no sense, at least not to me.

What my roommates failed to inform me of is that on the same day every month, my part of Downtown turns into this artsy mecca of youth expression. Its happened twice thus far, conveniently both on days when I really could have used the street parking outside my building. Basically, EVERY little shop or studio or open space in my neighborhood gets turned into a one-night open art gallery. At least ten square blocks get flooded with people checking out paintings, listening to music, getting a soy latte, etc. It would be kind of cool, if 60% of the people out there weren't complete toolbags desperately forcing themselves into a scene, but that's their issue not mine. The point is, this place gets crazy.

My second encounter with this came as I walked home from my car last night, and I was fortunate enough to come across a character I had met during my first experience with it. When I last saw him, he was being "interviewed" by some local student in my lobby. I do not know his name, but he was a pretty average looking 30 year old African-American guy, and my running nickname for him is MC Slash. Here is why.

MC Slash was very proud to proclaim for the camera that he lived on Skid Row. If you don't know, Skid Row is a long stretch of road downtown where many homeless people have congregated to form their own little commune. Like I have said before, I don't make fun of the homeless, and MC Slash is no exception. Because he ISN'T HOMELESS. According to him, he has a small apartment somewhere just outside the city, but chooses to live on Skid Row anyway. I'm sorry, come again? That's like buying a Ferrari, but deciding your just so much happier on your Vespa. Strike number one for MC Slash.

MC Slash then explained his allure to Skid Row. I was all about hearing his thoughts on this one, because there aren't too many things you could throw my way that would convince me to leave "a roof and four walls" on the bargaining table. As Slash proclaimed:

"Skid Row is my American Frontier, man. It's my horizon to chase. It's my 40 Acres and a Mule."

PAUSE. It's your what?! Congratulations asshole, you just insulted Fievel, Captain Jack Sparrow and General William Sherman all in one breath. Skid Row is not '40 acres and a mule'. A plot of land and a donkey-like mammal is '40 acres and a mule', Skid Row is a patch of concrete outside of El Pollo Loco. And the last time I checked, Skid Row has some pretty well defined boundaries. You're not exactly exploring any uncharted territory here, Columbus. Definite Strike Two.

But this guy truly became a clown-legend in my book when our little Barbara Walters-in-training asked him what he did to provide for himself. After taking a brief moment to compile the list in his head, his response was:

"What don't I do, shit. I'm a rapper slash songwriter. I'm an artist. I'm a clothing designer, see I got one of my shirts on now. I'm a stylist. Whatever you need man, I got you. I do it all."

It's most important to note that the shirt he "designed" was a blank white t-shirt with the words "To Live And Die In LA" printed in plain type across the front. I'm sorry, if I can recreate one of your "designs" using MS Paint in under 45 seconds, you are not a clothing designer. That would be like me going to H&M, buying every single blank white bra they have, putting my initials somewhere on each one and claiming to have discovered the secret Victoria's been keeping for son long. Lee McQueen would have slapped this man so hard, it's not even funny.

To recap, MC Slash is a rapper/songwriter/artist/clothing designer/stylist/anything else you can need. Oh, really? All that, and you still have time to foil the Joker's plans too Batman? At least Michael Jordan got the whole Basketball thing down pat first before he tacked Baseball on to his list. (Note: Welcome to the Space Jam.) I'm suprised this guy didn't apply a band-aid to a papercut and add 'Doctor' to that list too. Here's a thought: pick one and stick with it for a while homie, this isn't The Bachelor.

They say there are no Renaissance Men left in this world anymore. They are all sorely mistaken. MC Slash does it all. And he can't stop. Won't stop. Eh eh.

________________________________________________

This week's KleanItUp Honoree is Joeseph Velardo from Port St. Lucie, Florida. If you have never heard of this man, it's with good reason. He is not a public figure of any kind. Joey-V is a random ass-clown who found his way into news for doing the kind of shit I LOVE to hear about. As if Florida needed any more blemishes on its image.

Velardo is a twenty-eight year old law student. PAUSE. Really bro? Last I checked, law school takes three years to complete on schedule. Either he's going at an awfully slow pace, or he decided to make one of the most arduous, demanding and challenging careers his fallback option in life. Yeah, real brain wizard here.

Anywho, Joey got tired of law school, but couldn't figure out how to bail. I assume this is because he still lives at home, and his mom has a wooden spoon ready and waiting for just such an occurrence. Since fallblack plans seem to be his thing, he went with plan B: commit a felony and become academically ineligable!

So he walks into a Staples and decides to rob the joint. Somewhere he read that such an act would land him a third degree felony, presumably in his "Law School For Dummies" book. So, he snags some shit, walks out the door to set the alarm, then walks right back and demands to be arrested for what he's done. Foolproof, right?

Apparently dude didn't read the fine print: The robbery needs to exceed $300. The grand total of SuperDouche's spree: $276.88. The resulting charge: a misdemeanor. So not only does he have a shit ton of legal fees to pay, but he's still got to be in class on Monday. I love this shit.

LA has a new super hero

What is up my people?!?!?! It’s been a while since any one has posted anything, I guess Greg didn’t have any good stories and neither did I. That’s a lie, I actually have a gem from this past weekend but I CAN NOT post it for a looooong time (you need to be excited about it though, I am telling you that it is MONEY). Buuuuuut then something interesting happened today…..

Some of you may know that Greg and I are doing a thing called, “The Warrior Dash” on the 11^th. It is a three mile run featuring twelve obstacles (climbing bales of hay, traversing through water, jumping fire, climbing under barbed wire, ect.) and so I am in training for the competition. After a depressing 4 hours of reflecting on life and looking for a job I decided to take my mind off of things and go for a run.

At the start of my run I intended on going for my usual 3 mile run but then decided to make things a little tougher this time in order to become a true warrior.  My new rule was that every time my song changed or that I got stuck at a street light I would do 15 push ups or sit ups.  This was fun until I hit the last light on my trip home.

I run up to the light like it was every other one but as I began to reach for the crosswalk button I noticed two cars coming very fast to the intersection.  I probably would not have noticed this if both cars had a green light, but this was not the case.  The cars are racing to the light and are perpendicular to each other, one has a red and the other has a green.

To set the scene imagine if you were on a street corner and if you look at the corner diagonal from you one car is coming from the right of it and the other is coming from the left.  Now, just like in a TV show time begins slow down for me and my brain goes right to work:

Car A is traveling at about 50 mph and weighs, I would guess, 3,500 lbs.  Car B is traveling 45 mph and weighs around 3,000 lbs.  At the point of impact, if no brakes are applied, Car B will have the momentum to travel I would say abouttttttt, oh fuck that car is heading right for me!  The two cars collided and now one is out of control coming in my direction. I literally dive out of the way and go directly into a forward roll.  I convert my forward moving momentum into upward so I can stand up while spinning 180 degrees into a karate like stance, ready for the next vehicle to be coming my way.

I look over and spot that the car that almost took me out.  This car was angry my friends, like an old man trying to send back soup at a deli.  It was engulfed in smoke, gasoline was going everywhere, and I need to do something like right now. I run over to the vehicle and look in the window. A girl is inside crying and pleading with me to get her out of the car.  The driver side door took about 65% of the blow, and I was not sure if I could get the door open.  I grab onto the handle and try to swing the door open but it won’t budge.  I put one foot on the back door of the car and pull the door with all my might. Success! The door is open.  I grab the young woman and pull her from the mangled heap of metal that was once her car.  I can see she is badly injured and with no ambulances on the way and little time I put her in my arms I run her to the nearest hospital. I run her into the E.R. (still in my arms) and make sure she receives medical attention right away.

Tell me that that is not the most ballah story everrrrr!!!!!!  Alright, it would be if it was true. That is what I would like to call the "Hollywood" version of the story.  Here is what really happened. I stopped on a street corner to do some sit ups. Next thing I know I hear tires screeching, then a collision and then the sounds of a car heading right for me.  I cover my head and roll out of the way (I think that part is still pretty bad ass).  When I look up I see a car about 10 feet away from me. It almost ran me over and I had no idea because my back was to the intersection while doing sit ups (I'm an idiot looking at back on it and how close I actually came to death).  I did run to the car and I did have to rescue that girl from her vehicle just like I described it earlier. The car was leaking gas, smoke was everywhere, she couldn't get out of the car, and I had to use my foot to get the door open.  That part of the story is totally true. She was not badly injured (which is a good thing) but she was crying and I tried my best to console her.  After making sure she was ok and that I did all I could, I ran away like a super hero into the night.  No names, no glory, no thank you needed. Now some of you may ask, "Why?  Why did you not give that girl your name?  Why did you not try to meet up with this girl again?".  All I want to do is make sure that the people of my town are safe.  I help because I can, not because I want things in return.

Seriously this left me a little traumatized. Making eye contact with that girl while tears streamed down her face and hearing her say "Please help! Get me out of here!" is something I didn't enjoy. It was sad. But I suppose that is all part of building a good super hero, right?

You can sleep well tonight, Los Angeles. I am here for you.

Love Always,

BJ

Note 1: I know I said my stories will be me making fun of myself, but I couldn't hold back.  I had to share this story, I felt too good afterwards.

Note 2: I would have stuck around for the police if I actually witnessed anything.  Like I said my back was turned during the accident, so all that I really did was rescue the damsel in distress (oh and she was a damsel.)

Note 3:  Nick didn’t read this over for me and Klean Up my writing yet (see what I did there), but I had to get this story out there for all of you like I promised.  So trust me, I know it was rough to read but hopefully it was worth it.

Note 4: Please comment!!!! Even if it's you telling me I suck and that I'm an idiot. I want this blog to be really interactive where we can host debates.  You can say things and I can respond, or I can say something and you can respond. It will be so much more fun I promise you.  Hell even start your own blog and react to our blog, that would be fun too.  Just let's get more reader involvement.

Ameritalia

WRITTEN BY: BJ

Alright it's been a while since I've posted, but nothing really good has happened for me to post about. Because of this, I'll tell you an old rejection story that some of you may know, but many of you do not. Before that though, if I could quote the great Frank Costanza:
"I've got a lot of problems with you people! Now, you're going to hear about them!"

My last blog post, the one where I give Greg a profile, was terrible. Why are there not more comments of people making fun of me? I am disappointed in all of you. How many times am I going to say "Seriously" in order to try to get a laugh. I read that over after I posted it, it's soooo bad. I was writing like some budding stand up comedian who finds himself hilarious. Seriously!?! Why is that the punch line for all of my jokes? It's embarrassing, but you all should be more embarrassed for not letting me have it. That's the point of this blog, to call me and Greg out on our weakness' and exploit them for your benefit. Try it and I promise you it will feel good. It will also make me feel good. I enjoy laughing at myself.

Before I begin, I know the person who this story is about (she reads the blog. Thanks for your support!) and I'm not going to be giving her name and I will try not to embarrass her, or myself, in front of her.  Sorry for posting this story.

Now the moment you have all been waiting for. My story is about a girl. Her name? Let's call her Ameritalia. In Ithaca, the "Commons" is a town square where they have different types of stores, restaurants, and most importantly, bars. But after last call at the bars, most college students stumble their way across to either "Sammy's" or "Ameritalia's" (both pizza places) for a slice to extend the night a little bit longer.

After one particular night and a multidude of drinks, my friends and I crawl across to Ameritalia's. Working at the counter is a girl that I find to be very attractive. Usually after a couple drinks I become more confident, and A LOT more talkative. I struck up a conversation with this girl and ordered my pizza and was on my way. For some reason though, I thought this made a good impression on her and that I was Joe Cool.

A week later, its the same deal, bars then pizza (trend?). I strut my stuff into Ameritalia thinking, "Hey, if that girl is there again, I got this." Success! She is working again! I'm goin' foe it! I walk up to the counter aaaaaaaand she didn't remember me. My confidence is shot right there. But, as I said, I had been to the bars, so I was not giving up that easily. I tried to make her feel bad for not remembering me. Then maybe the next week, she would remember me because she felt guilty.

Next week, bars and pizza (who would have guessed that was coming, right?), I walk in again thinking she has to remember me this time, I made her feel bad last week! And nothing. I figured I would finally introduce myself and get her name. Yes, the third week I finally introduce myself. I know, I'm not good with girls (this where you all make fun of me in the comment section). I tell her I'm going to find her on facebook and she says that's cool. I was new to Facebook and didn't really know how to find people on there, so I couldn't find her at first. I would say by Wednesday I got a friend request, and what do you know, it's that girl, Ameritalia (my friends and I called her this before I knew her name so it kind of stuck). She friended me! Awesome! She finally knows who I am and actually took time out of her day to look me up.

This is where things start to get weird. Her facebook status says "married".... Alright no one in college is actually married yet, are they? It has to be her just being silly. So I snoop a little further. Then, in the little thing that says "write something about yourself" she said, and I quote, "Where my ring at?" Not good. Profile picture? Her and some boy, arms around each others shoulders. Again, not good. I dig a little deeper and I look at one of her old profile pictures and she is wearing a wedding band on her left hand on her ring finger. Ok, this chick has to be married. She still found ME though on Facebook so, that's a good sign.

Another weekend comes around and I stroll into Ameritalia. She was behind the counter. This is how our conversation went:

Me: "I'm sorry, this is an odd question but, are you really married?"

Ameritalia: *Puzzled face with a good 3 second pause* "What?"

Me: "Your Facebook status says you are married.... so are you?"

Ameritalia: "We're friends on facebook?"

Me: "WHAT!!!" *I storm towards the door*

Ameritalia: "Wait!"

I continued to walk out the door with my friends following, all laughing hysterically at me. Great moment.

Later that week, I Facebook messaged her to tell her that I was upset she didn't remember me again. She was nice about it and apologized, yet again. Then I had to ask one more time if she really was married, and she replied that SHE IS MARRIED.

I'm confused and kinda pissed.

This sparked a HUGE debate that went on between my friends and I about whether or not she really was married. We are split about 50/50 on the matter. I stood on the "married" side. While I was a believer, I continued to go in week after week and try, and I emphasize try, to hit on her.

Granted nothing ever actually came out of it, but on Halloween she did hook me up with a free slice and that made the whole thing worth it for me.

Flash forward a few months. I am now in Los Angeles. I don't know what sparked my memory but I suddenly said, "I wonder if Ameritalia was lying to me and that whole time and her telling me she was married was just a good way to try to get that drunk A-hole (me) to stop hitting on her every week (it didn't work but a good try)." So I Facebook message her again and it turns out she is NOT married and claims it also was not a way for her to get me to leave her alone. She wanted to see how long I would believe that she was actually married because no one else believed that. I didn't buy that for a second. Either way it sucked for me. I was either a gullible idiot OR a drunk annoyance.

I hope you made it through that whole story and found it funny. I find it pretty funny now. For her, she just learned a lot about me and that there was a semester long debate about her marital status amongst my friends, so sorry for that Ameritalia. I hope we can still be friends.

Now it's time for the low blow of the week:

Jodi: "I want to talk to your last girlfriend."

Me: "What? Why?"

Jodi: "I don't understand how anyone could ever date you."

Ouch

Love Always,

BJ

* A special note from Nick. After reading and attempting to edit this post, I made BJ sit down and read about these (http://grammar.ccc.commnet.edu/grammar/commas.htm) and when to use them. I apologize if there are still errors because there was one literally on every line. That is all. Thanks!

Balls Were Made To Be Kicked

WRITTEN BY: Greg

(First off, I just want to note that our last post means we have already doubled the output of Tanya Parker. BOO-yah, bitch. Damn that felt good.)

I wish I could say I've been an athlete my entire life. A brief stint as a fat kid between birth and kindergarten put a blemish on that resume. Not sure if every elementary school does this, but mine had this thing called the Presidential Fitness Challenge. Kids were tested on some standard gym activities (rope climb, sit and reach, death maze, etc.), and based on how you scored, you fell into one of three categories. The highest rank was Presidential, and you got a blue patch declaring your athletic awesomeness for that one. Second was National, which meant you didn't suck, but you weren't amazing either; That netted you a red patch. Then there was the third, and my personal favorite: Participation. That was the public school system's way of saying 'Well, at least you showed up.' The white Participation patch was the gym-class version of the scarlett letter. I brought one of those bad boys home in Kindergarten, and my parents had me signed up for little league and soccer before I could unlace my LA Lights. Got the blue patch every year after that. My awards shelf in my room looked a lot like the Hawk's banner wall in Mighty Ducks 1. So shameful.

Since then, the list of sports I have played are endless. Despite being only 5'6", I am one of the fastest people I know, so I can usually serve some sort of purpose in whatever sport is being played. I'm open to just about anything, but I was admittedly skeptical when I got recruited to join a kickball team. I hadn't played kickball since Field Day in 5th grade and couldn't imagine there being any kind of real structure to it. I pictured a bunch of bored 20-somethings in a park goofing around. After playing both high school and college soccer, a downshift in seriousness and organization wasn't going to work for me. But, the kid recruiting me was a good friend, and I had just moved to LA, so I had nothing better to do. I figured I'd check it out at first and then gradually drop off.

I could not have been more wrong. (Nor could BJ in his flattering profile of me.) This was not just some local park league. This was a division of the World Adult Kickball Association. It's got divisions all over the country, and a national tournament in Vegas every year. After just a month of being in the league, I can honestly say its one of the most amorphous forms of organized sports on the planet.

Its co-ed (I repeat: not a dudefest) and 21+, and every division has its own home bar/pub that the whole league goes to on game night. Any excuse to drink with 100+ people on a Monday is good to me. So right off the bat, this idea way looking up.

I say 'amorphous' because I have never seen a league that caters to both athletes and non-athletes so well. To be honest, I didn't think it could be done. It can.

First, you got the non-athletes. It takes a special kind of person to take time to play in a sports league when they aren't athletic. Based on everyone I have met, 'special' in this case means awesome as hell. Kickball allows for plenty of time in the dugout when your not at-bat or in the field, so you're really just relaxing with cool people. This relaxation process usually involves alcohol, if your team is doing it right. It's not the most physically demanding game, so not being the best athlete isn't as big a deal as it might be in mainstream sports. You get some fresh air, quality hang time, and an endless supply of drinking buddies. Win.

AND THEN there are the athletes. Pretty much, its any athletes chance to be LeBron James for one night a week, without ever having to really practice. I'm already on a solid campaign for league MVP. The non-athletes are perfectly fine with you taking it serious, as long as your not a d-bag about it. I've already shed more blood this season than I did in all four years of college soccer combined. Losing isn't the end of the world, but winning is admittedly awesome. As always.

There's no established kickball "style," so you can basically wear whatever makes you feel baller as hell. I'll be the first to admit that my shooting sleeve, spandex undershirt, football gloves and spandex sliding shorts aren't entirely necessary, but neither are the random things (bandannas, knee pads, short shorts) anyone else rocks. They do them, I do me, its all good.

I would expect a good amount of people who hear about organized kickball to think they're too cool for something like this. At the age of 18, I probably would have been too. My only regret now is not having known about this shit back in Boston. Supposedly California is like the WAKA hotbed, so I imagine I could have done some serious damage in the lesser-developed East Coast divisions. All I can say is, I'd suggest it to anyone. I'm the first person in line to rip on anything lame, so if this was beat I'd say so. Its the exact opposite.
___________________________________________________

Every week, I'll be doing a section called Klean It Up, where I feature one epic fuck up on this planet who needs to get a solid smack in the teeth for dragging society down. Some weeks they might be famous people, and some weeks they may be newspaper cases that made me die a bit inside. The shame will be consistent regardless.

The inaugural KIU honoree is "Monster Garage" star Jesse James. For anyone who didn't know, this guy builds custom motorcycles in Long Beach, California that are admittedly pretty badass. After a bunch of celebrities caught wind of his work and got their own, his profile took off. Discovery Channel picked up Monster Garage, and soon he was a known figure.

It's no secret that some good, wholesome girls like guys with an edge to them. (Why else would I get a lip ring.) Apparently, Sandra Bullock was no exception, and the two actually married in 2005.

Which brings us to now. This week, James got his Tiger Woods on and issued a public apology for infidelity. This is mind-blowing in itself. Any guy who can manage to cheat on Sandra Bullock should be sterilized. What makes it truly remarkable is who he cheated with: an Amish grunge stripper named Michelle McGee.

Really Jesse. This chick looks like Tim Burton's Coraline, assuming Coraline spent a night black-out drunk at the Lisa Frank Tattoo Studio. I would pay her NOT to take her clothes off. It shocks me that any guy could want a lapdance from Davey Havok's twin sister. Ugh.

I'll leave you on that note. Lapdances and AFI in the same thought process has left me needing a shower.

(Kill Hannah, on the other hand...)

WRITER PROFILE: Greg

WRITTEN BY: BJ

Now this post is for our readers from Old Bridge, Ithaca, and I suppose anyone else who is reading this. Odds are you don’t know who Greg is, and are probably curious who this guy is that thinks that he's so damn funny. So, I’m going to try to help you out.

Greg Epstein is originally from Marlboro, NJ. His last name is Epstein, he’s from Marlboro, and he’s not a Jew. I know, it still blows my mind too. He is actually… I'm not really sure what he is, but he’s Spanish, not Jewish.

Greg went to every Ithaca College student’s safety school, Emerson College in Boston. Now is when I gotta give him some props. While attending Emerson, Greg played varsity soccer for four straight years. That’s pretty ballah. Playing soccer for a college is pretty cool no matter what school it is. It takes dedication, a lot of hard work, and a lot of talent. Now, what is not so cool is DJing homoerotic dance parties at your house several nights out of the year. He would have you believe that they were just parties at his frat house, but I think we all know what that means.

In his post, Greg ripped on me for not being able to talk to girls, but I think that can be overcome. It just takes me some time to beat myself up a little bit, and then I have to go for it. Greg, on the other hand, looks to be about twelve years old. It’s great to be able to talk to girls all night, but when you come out of the conversation and the girl thinks that you are still in middle school, you kind of got no place to go with that. To be fair, I can’t grow facial hair yet either. We’ll hit puberty soon enough. But seriously he looks like a tween.

Now most of you are probably saying that looks can be deceiving. "What are some of Greg’s hobbies, I’m sure he does things that make him seem older." You’re right, he does. Twice a week our boy goes to the local park and plays kickball. That’s right, kickball. The sport all of us played when we were in elementary school. And when he isn’t hangin' round the kickball diamond, he is collecting Pokemon cards and taking care of Spike, his pet tamagotchi. (He is still on the hunt for a Cloyster, so if you know of one, be sure to hit him up.) Alright, I may have made that last part up. But seriously ask him about Spike, he is adorable.

Now that you kind of know Greg, here is what you can expect from him. Dude can reference any thing at any time. I once heard him reference Walter Mondale (Vice President 1977-1981) while talking about the show “Sister Sister” (TV series featuring Tia and Tamera Mowry). Who else can do that?!? The references are usually absurd but always devastating, so if you’re into pop culture you’ll love his posts.

I hope now you feel like you know Greg a little better and maybe you can relate to his posts and find them as amusing as I do. Not sure what/when my next post will be but I’ll try to be entertaining. Greg, on the other hand, has some new material he plans to drop on Monday, assuming he's still alive by then.

Love Always,

BJ

Oh and by the way, Greg posted some B.S. in his last post. Two corrections:

1. I suggested writing our profiles for each other. I stole the idea from the Free Beer and Hot Wings Morning Show (Check it out, it is hilarious dude).
2. I never could have come up with that “Big Gulp” line. It was way to clever for me. But I will probably use it next chance I get.

WRITER PROFILE: BJ

Written By: Greg

A couple of things have been brought to my attention. The first is, apparently we are .1% definitely gay. Thanks BJ.

The second is, since this blog is in its earliest stages and the majority of our readers are friends of ours individually, there aren't many people reading this who know both of us. We could have been lame and given ourselves cute little biographies, but that's obviously not how we do shit here. We (and by 'we' I mean 'I') decided it would be much better to write one anothers', with as much passive aggressive disdain and backhanded criticism as possible. So, with that in mind:

William Jasper Kiss. "BJ" to people who know him. I actually have no idea what the J stands for, so its Jasper now. Seen here in the original "klean up your act" inspiring Unibomber-Pedo look. Known this kid for close to nine years, but thanks to college you can chalk the last three of them up to "lost touch." Not that it seems to have mattered. We played club soccer back in Jersey on a squad that I still claim was the single best team ever assembled. We were the two guys on the team who talked about South Park WAY too much. Yeah, we clearly got mad girls with that shit. Womp womp.

These days, he's a second semester senior at Ithaca College, studying out here in Hollyhood. Back east, he passed time by jumping from high places while running. Dead serious. He's working as an intern at G4 and some company called Famous Monsters . The only thing I know about either job, is that one of them told him he could have "whatever he wanted" out of the company cabinets for lunch, and he got all pumped for it. Once he opened it, it was just a wall of Starkist Tuna cans. Legit, dude has had it for lunch every day since he started. Gotta love intern abuse.

The kid cracks jokes ALMOST as often as me, and ends roughly half of his sentences with "heyoooo!". His other notable social trait (girls, listen up) can be best explained through two true stories:
- He knew somebody who knew somebody who knew an LA Kings dancer. These chicks are basically paid to be ridiculously good looking, and at times skate around clearing the excess ice. He had tickets to a game. She had been told ahead of time by the aforementioned contact that he was coming, so the groundwork was done already. All he had to do was go up to the girls before the game, ask which one was her, and proceed with conversation. He walked RIGHT up to them, paused, stared... and turned and walked away. The end. No words spoken, just a silent "I got this, I got this, I got this, fuck this I'm out."
- The Farrelly Brothers featured one of BJ's pick up lines in their best movie ever.

So yeah, he loves hockey, not too big on anything "urban," and now that he bought a surf board, he may never work again. Since I've put a face to the name, hearing his FML-inducing stories should be all the more amusing now.

Heyooo!

Introduction

My introduction to this blog was not as pleasant as I would have liked, but it was the truth.  I was the drunk/hung over person who first inspired us to write about our adventures. Because this whole thing started with me drinking a bit more than I should have, I feel it is only suitable to introduce myself after, yet again, I have had a bit too much to drink.

I am BJ, I am 22 years old and I am from Old Bridge, NJ.  Starting in December I began my new life by driving across the country to the city of Angels.  I am a heterosexual male and yet I'm terrified of the opposite sex.  I would not be writing this on the blog, but as I have already said, I have had too much to drink tonight.  The idea behind this blog is to pretty much humiliate myself (and hopefully Greg too) in order to make you all feel better about your lives.  I will admit right now that I am not a writer like Greg is, however I am shameless, so you can look forward to me telling you all the embarrassing facts of my life.  It's funny to me.

Because this week is the first week and this is mainly my introduction, I'm only going to give a brief break down about my first night on spring break. (Real time: Just got another beer)  

- I party at Greg's on Friday night for his friend's birthday.  

- I pass out on his couch and remember Greg throwing a blanket over me.  

- Next thing I remember is waking up in the bathroom, and once I return to the couch I see that Greg is now in the place I remember sleeping, under the very blanket I remember being thrown over me.  

I am 99.9% sure nothing gay happened.  Since this is a blog and there is no clear record of the night, you can draw up your own conclusions.  To finish that story, I woke up on the other couch (not the one Greg was on) and Greg is in his bed.  Again, I am 99.9% sure nothing gay happened.

This is my first entry and I have been drinking, so I am sorry if it is not as funny as you would like, but I think what I wrote is devastating to me and is most likely a story most people would keep to themselves.  This is the type of story you can expect from me.  It's not the greatest writing but it will not be things that I would like to be public information. 

I hope you enjoyed post #1 by me. By the way, I am single, so ladies hit me up.

Love always,

BJ

P.S.  Follow me on twitter: @wkiss1

but don't forget about the blog because that is where the devastating posts will be.

Declaration of War

Fuck Tanya L. Parker.

This all started with a dream. Neigh, a vision. Imagine if you will, a typical morning after college-level binge drinking. Nobody is particularly thrilled about being awake. Times like these, appearance isn't nearly as high on the priority list as usual. We've all been there before. Your shirt isn't ironed, your socks don't match, your hair is Trump-esque; something is off, but you really just don't care. No big deal.

But then there are times when this goes too far. It's one thing to sulk around your apartment playing NHL2009 looking ghastly. It's an entirely different story when you're standing in line for Sunday brunch, surrounded by aspiring child actors, looking like the Unibomber. Hood up, face unshaven, aviator sunglasses on... indoors. And yet, our BJ pulled this look off flawlessly. It was this sight that brought about the four words our dream was built on: "Clean up your act."

It's a pretty harsh thing to say to someone. It's impossible not to sound condescending, but in a way it kinda needs to be. Saying "clean up your act" is essentially tough love. It's ALSO an awesome, awesome name for a blog created by two guys in their early 20's living in SoCal with nothing better to do that recount the funny shit their lives entail. And so, the dream was born.

Which brings me back to Tanya L. Parker. I think it's important to have a nemesis in life. Healthy competition brings out the best in us all, and if you can manage to make it entirely unhealthy and unexplainably hate driven, even better. Apparently, Ms. Parker decided to start herself a little blog in 2005. She logged a total of two posts, both of which involved her bitching about her new-at-the-time apartment in New York. It had bed bugs. (Note: this pleases me.) She had to get rid of her antique record player. She put it on the curb, and took a picture to prove it. The end.

My problem with this? The name of her blog: "Clean Up Your Act."

Seriously? THAT'S what this bitch names her blog? Not "Whiny Broad In The Big City" or "Too Poor To Sanetize?" The only act that needed cleaning in this case was hers. Now I know how the people at Nintendo felt when Zelda.com was sniped by a porn company when the internet was born. Not that I saw that myself or anything.

I do not know Tanya Parker. I don't believe I ever will. But as far as this blog is concerned, she is now the official nemesis/rival of Klean Up Your Act. That errant K in our title will be a lifelong reminder for both of us that her brief need to bitch and moan cast a shadow on our month-old dreams. No, were not trying to be edgy. No, we aren't trying to shake up the "establishment" or prove that were "new wave." We had to do that shit out of necessity. The URL of our dreams had been frivolously wasted. And now, Tanya will be the Notorious B.I.G. to our Tupac.

So I repeat: Fuck you, Tanya Parker.

By the way, I'm Greg. Nice to meet you.

-G