This is a guest post by Siddhartha Herdegen. Siddhartha Herdegen blogs at Principles of Failure. He thinks about a lot of things. He fails at practically everything. As an aside, Siddhartha won a book giveaway on this blog about four months ago and the book is still in my backseat. So, who else wants to participate in the dance contest? Okay, here’s Siddhartha again. Yah, I just hijacked his intro.

I’m not in great shape but I’m working on it. I may not be losing weight but I consider it good karma to exercise anyway.

So I’m doing something good; going to the gym during my lunch hour instead of eating yet another KFC Double Down.

And while I’m in the shower someone takes my towel!

Now, understand, I’m a rational guy. I know a lot of towels look the same. But if someone took mine instead of theirs, there should be another towel still hanging on the hook next to where mine was.

There’s not. I sense discomfort coming.

I’ve gotten dressed without drying off before. It’s almost as uncomfortable as wiping yourself with a hotel shower cap because your idiot roommate dropped the roll of toilet paper in the bath tub.

I look out into the locker room and there’s somebody’s great-grandfather moving in super slow motion. I seriously had to wait a moment to tell if he was actually moving or just a wax statue.

In his hands—you guessed it—my towel.

I don’t think I’m the only guy who doesn’t like confronting an old man with my genitals hanging out. But here’s the thing, you can’t clasp your hands in front of you like you just got pantsed in the lunchroom. You start doing the “fig leaf” and you lose people’s respect.

If you’re a man you’ve got to walk with confidence, even if you are dripping from the shower and carrying a bottle of Suave shampoo.

So I confidently sauntered up to this prune of a man who was gently drying the most inaccessible portions of his anatomy with my once white towel.

“Hey, I think you grabbed the wrong towel.”

His look told me everything I needed to know. This guy thought the President of the United States was still Gerald Ford.

“Huh, your…I’m sorry? What was that? Is this your…”

Uh, yeah that’s my towel…

He was still trying to figure out if I was his son.

“Oh did I? I must have taken it by mistake.”

Well, you can keep it now. Gross.

“Hey, easy to do,” I said. “No worries. Where’s yours?”

He stared at the empty towel hooks. He looked like he was trying to read Korean.

“You know, I brought a towel…”

He gave me a silly grin. I realized at that point I wasn’t getting a towel.

I think he was going to finish that sentence “…when I came to the gym in 1975.”

I pulled my clothes on over my wet body. I did not appreciate this.

We ended up coming out of the gym at the same time just as a middle aged woman was walking towards the doors.

“There you are Grandpa, I was getting worried. You left your towel in the car…”

He patted my shoulder with a big grin. “This kind young man let me borrow his.”

“Aw, that was sweet,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

Let me tell you, it felt great. And he was right; I was a kind young man.

Wait, wait, I know what you’re thinking. But I am a pretty nice guy. For all Gramps knows.

Isn’t that what it’s really about? Who cares what I’m thinking? As long as I’m acting kindly, I’m a kind person.

And now I’m a kind person who always keeps a spare towel in his locker.

Guest Post by Josh Hanagarne

I was in a Maverik not too long ago. If you’re not American, or if you live in a state without Maverik, it’s just a convenience store. Oh, they want you to think otherwise. The cashiers are called Adventure Guides and putting gasoline in your automobile is supposed to feel like bagging a charging rhino on safari, but it’s a lot like a 7-11, Chevron, Texaco, etc.

You can buy a ho-ho. You can buy a soda. You can use the restroom. And finally, you can buy a hotdog.

I am a fitness and strength-minded individual. I can deadlift 500 lbs. I can bend nails and bolts with my bare hands. I have low bodyfat. All of these things = I am a giant oaf, but a passionate one who has a hell of a lot of fun with his odd hobbies. Some would call my hobbies obsessions. But even an obsession can be destroyed by an occasional craving.

Sometimes I just need a hotdog.

The Siren Song of the Wiener

At times, I will be sitting there on my couch, typing at my desk at work, or lying in bed thinking thoughts of abysmal banality, when the need for a hotdog will explode through my head like an errant javelin. And once it’s lodged in there between my ears, there’s only one way to pull it out: with a hotdog.

And not just any hotdog. I’m no gourmand. I can only spell the word connoisseur because Microsoft Word for Mac does it for me. Sometimes I need the hotdog that’s been on the rollers under the lamps at Maverik for too long. The gray one. The bumpy one. The one that feels like chewing a juicy latex glove.

Still with me? Since you read Jenny’s blog, I’m guessing you’re still here and that you’re also not quite right in the head.

Sometimes, cravings are catastrophic. A man reduced to an appetite can be a sad, sad thing.

Rewind

When I entered that Maverik, I scurried to the rollers with trembling hands and licked my lips as I gazed down at the hideous bounty. I opened the lid and set down the empty cup I was going to fill with Diet Mountain Dew. But the cup skittered off the edge of the counter and landed on my toes. I leaned down to get it. SSSSSSS.

There are moments when I can barely stand to think about all the wonderful things about me.  I get so proud of myself sometimes that I need a kick in the face just to remind me that other people exist. 

This was not one of those moments.  When I leaned down to get my cup, my forehead pressed into the hotdog rollers.  The sound of my sizzling forehead snapped me back into reality.  I am a big fan of scars, and I have some great ones, but all I could think of in that moment was: Please do not let there be a scar on my forehead in the shape of a hotdog roller from Maverik. 

Luckily, there wasn’t.  My adventure guide sold me that wiener without even looking up.  And it didn’t even really hurt, it just startled me. 

But now, when I tread the hallowed halls of Maverik, craving a weenie beyond reason and rationality, I feel a new surge of adrenaline that has nothing to do with the hotdog I’m stalking, but has everything to do with the most unforgettable sound I’ve ever heard…

The sound of one head sizzling. 

Josh Hanagarne

Get Stronger, Get Smarter, Live Better…Every Day

 About the Author: Josh Hanagarne is the twitchy giant behind World’s Strongest Librarian, a blog about living with Tourette’s Syndrome, kettlebells, book recommendations, buying pants when you’re 6’8”, old-time strongman training, and much more. Please subscribe to Josh’s RSS Updates to stay in touch.

Guest Post by Alex Stauber

Alex Stauber is a beer history expert, fearless kayak commandeer and a big fan of the ol’ Rum. Jenny just cracked herself up writing this bio.

Those of you who drive in big cities like Miami, Los Angeles, New York know that drivers are expected to cut you off, flick you off and piss you off.

I drive in Miami, but adapt my driving tactics to rude drivers and its Wild West road culture. For example, if I change lanes, I rarely turn on my blinkers, otherwise I will not be let in. It’s a way to keep them guessing.

In a city like Miami, road altruism is rare and welcome. But does road altruism ever get dangerous?

Sure, you have gotten into a battle with people on the road because one or more parties were acting out. But, have you ever got into a battle of politeness? It’s a battle where you signal for a person to go first and they signal for you to go first and then you signal them, etc.

Have you ever gotten to a four-way stop at the same time as the person to the left or right of you? Ever waited for your opportunity to turn left and the person going straight wants you to go first? Then you know that sometimes those situations can get serious when both of you misinterpret who is suppose to go first. Since you told them to go and they told you to go, it further complicates the situation. Sometimes both of you go at the same time due to miscommunication. This can result in a crash, causing those feelings of goodwill to fly right out the front windshield.

Road Rage vs. Road Altruism

(Editor’s Note: Alternative title is “Microsoft Paint Masterpiece that has Caused Jenny to Reevalutate Her Life Goal of Becoming a Microsoft Paint Artist-for-Hire“)

Guest Post by Matt Cheuvront

This post is part of the Guest Blog Grand Tour over at Life Without Pants – an epic two-month journey of over 50 guest posts. Want to learn more about Matt Cheuvront & see how far the rabbit hole goes? Subscribe to the Life Without Pants RSS feed & follow him on Twitter to keep in touch!

Who is Lady Gaga, seriously? She basically came out of nowhere and has, in the past 12 months, taken the throne for most ridiculous/unusual/awesome icon in pop music.

And I’m in love with her.

I mean, in a non romantic way –  I’m engaged, so I mean love in a strictly idealistic I want to be on her way.

And I don’t know why.

Really, I don’t. Her music is catchy, but the same can be said for a lot of other pop musicians. She’s not overly attractive but then again, there’s something about those geometric outfits and masks that has me all up in arms.

I’ve wrestled with this for a while now – and somewhere between watching her Youtube, buying her CDs, and contemplating buying a $200 ticket to her show in Chicago (which I didn’t – by the way – but it was a tough call) I’ve settled on the fact that she has to be putting something in the Kool-Aid.

Have you ever seen that episode of Saved by the Bell where Zack taps into the power of subliminal messaging? It’s not long before he uses a Paul Revere tape to brainwash Kelly into asking him to the Sweetheart Dance and a Beach Boys tape to talk Mr. Belding out of a parent-teacher conference. Of course, in true SBTB fashion, the gang gets wise to his act and the plan backfires, resulting in the entire school falling head over heels (including Slater) for the “blonde Tom Cruise”.

It seems totally ridiculous, right? But maybe it’s not too farfetched. In fact, I think it’s entirely possible that Lady Gaga has us all under her control. The ridiculous Kermit coats, the transsexual rumors. Please – it’s all part of her ploy to spread Gaga fever. Grown men everywhere are finding themselves belting out “Pa pa pa Poker Face” while they drive to work. Even I want to take a ride on the disco stick. It’s sad and somehow perfect, all at the same time.

So cheers to you, Lady Gaga, you’ve got us all under your spell, and there’s no clear end in sight.