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 and hello to all you fine folks nursing your morning coffee or evening cocoa. It's me, Glenn Blamstead, your friendly neighborhood fool with a mustache that looks like it lost a bet with a caterpillar. If you've stuck with my stories so far—from the pie-in-the-face disaster at the Mora Muskrat Festival to the
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
Picture this: It's a lazy summer afternoon in the heart of Minnesota, the kind where the sun hangs low like it's too tired to climb any higher, and you're digging into a bowl of cottage cheese that's lumpy, creamy, and somehow both refreshing and perplexing all at once. That tangy bite hits you just right,
Choosing the Wrong Site Location Where you build matters just as much as what you build, many people assume any flat piece of land will work, but choosing the wrong site can lead to drainage issues, accessibility problems, and foundation instability. Pole barn mistakes often begin before a single post is set, starting with the
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
