Hey there, it’s Glenn Blamstead again, the guy who’s been building pole barns for Sherman Pole Buildings longer than some of you have been able to legally buy beer. I still live out here on the edge of Mora where the cell service drops out right when you’re trying to call in a pizza order.
Image Attribution Michael Barera, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons Howdy, folks. Glenn Blamstead here, still kickin’ despite what the cholesterol charts say. My doctor took one look at my bloodwork and said, “Glenn, you keep eating like a teenager and driving like a maniac, you’re gonna need a cardiologist on speed dial.” I told
Howdy, folks. If you've been trailing along on these chronicles of mine—like that time I tried to outwit a muskrat at the county fair and ended up looking like I'd lost a bet with a beehive—you know I'm Glenn Blamstead, purveyor of pole barns and perpetrator of puns that could buckle a load-bearing beam. Here
Howdy, folks—grab a stool or a stump, and let's chew the fat on something that's been bugging me like a chigger in a chambray shirt. It's Glenn Blamstead here, your go-to guy for pole barns that stand tall and stories that sag a bit under their own weight. If you've tagged along on my trail
Well, howdy there, folks. It's your old pal Glenn Blamstead here, mustache twitching like a divining rod over a dry well, ready to spin another yarn from the frost-kissed fringes of Minnesota's backwoods. If you've been keeping tabs on my escapades—those glorious trainwrecks of wit and wisdom—you know I ain't one to shy away from
Gather 'round the campfire of calamity, you timber-loving troubadours of the Northwoods, because if there’s one thing that’ll make a grown man like me—Glenn Blamstead, purveyor of pole barns and perpetrator of puns so groan-worthy they could level a load-bearing wall—blush beet-red under my walrus mustache, it’s the electric jolt of a glance across a
Glenn Blamstead's mustache twitched like a divining rod sensing underground mischief as he leaned against the splintered fence rail at the county fair. "Ma'am," he said to the cotton-candy vendor, his voice gravelly from too many cattle auctions and not enough dry rehearsals, "if you were a fruit, you'd be a fine-apple." She paused mid-twirl, pink
Well, slap me with a walleye and call me a muskrat’s uncle—it all started in Isle, Minnesota, where the mosquitoes are the size of fighter jets and the lake smells like a fish fry gone wrong. I’m Glenn Blamstead, back when I was a scrawny sprout with a mustache that looked like a caterpillar got
Ever frozen mid-stride at the base of an escalator, convinced those relentless metal teeth are plotting your undignified tumble? You're not alone in that heart-pounding hesitation, where one wrong step could turn a simple ascent into a slapstick spectacle worthy of viral fame. But take a deep breath, fellow phobia fighters—whether it's the whir of
Picture this: It's a crisp Minnesota morning, the kind where the coffee steams like a geyser and the frost on the ground crunches like nature's own potato chips. Glenn's hat empire was crumbling—fur flying everywhere, orders piling up like snowdrifts, and his "patented" dyeing process turning everything in sight a shade of "muskrat mauve." Glenn,
