A Christmas Tale from Stig's Gran: The Unraveling of Barb's "Famous" Biscuit Recipe

Welcome to a very special Christmas in July edition! While we may be soaking up the summer sun, it's never too early to dive into a heartwarming (and hilariously awkward) holiday story. So, grab your beach towel and a glass of lemonade as we take you back to a memorable Christmas Eve in December that left my best friend Stig's family laughing for years to come.

It all started with a Christmas story from Stig's Gran about his mom—let's call her Barb—and to this day, I can't help but believe my own sister might have had a hand in the whole debacle.

You see, Barb was infamous in Stig's family, but not in a good way. She only bothered to show up to family gatherings when she knew there was something in it for her. Christmas was her prime target—showing up just in time for dinner, often empty-handed, and mysteriously vanishing before the gift exchange. Classic Barb.

One Christmas Eve, she strutted into Gran's trailer park Rec Room, uninvited as usual, with a Tupperware container full of what she proudly dubbed "Barb's Famous Biscuits." Let me tell you, Barb was infamous, and there was nothing famous about her or anything she concocted in the kitchen. As everyone began to fill their plates from the lovingly prepared buffet, Barb's "famous" biscuits started to disappear, revealing a thin piece of waxed paper with a very familiar logo and restaurant name—Kentucky Fried Chicken. Yes, you read that right. Barb's so-called famous biscuits were actually the Colonel's creation.

The room erupted in laughter, and Barb stormed out, not only without enjoying Gran's delicious food but also without her precious Tupperware. Stig's cousin, Julia, seized the opportunity and claimed Barb's freshly made plate as her own, in addition to the one she had already made. Talk about a Christmas miracle! Nothing goes to waste in Stig's family.

Now, we can all guess that someone Barb had been rude to was handed the Tupperware container and tasked with arranging the biscuits to look homemade. They knew exactly how to execute sweet revenge on the Original "Karen" by placing the KFC paper under the biscuits, ensuring her lie unraveled one biscuit at a time.

From that Christmas forward, Stig and his aunts made it a tradition to pick up Barb's Famous Biscuits from KFC for every holiday gathering, hoping she'd show up. But she never did. And even if she had, I'm sure she would've claimed she didn't remember the incident and projected it onto one of her sisters or her niece, Julia, which was just in her nature.

On a side note, my sister Becki worked at KFC on Davis Highway in Pensacola and the location in Milton during the time frame that this occured. This sounds exactly like something Becki would have done to a rude customer because, well, my sister is just awesome that way.

Do you have any hilarious holiday stories or family drama to share? Drop them in the comments below! And as we celebrate Christmas in July, if this story brought a smile to your face or reminded you of your own family antics, feel free to show some love with a little contribution or a gift. After all, who says the spirit of giving is limited to December? 🎄🎁

Stay cool and merry, everyone! 🎅✨

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Stig’s Unconventional Job Related Adventures: Lessons from a Rebel Spirit

We all have that one friend who turns life into an unforgettable tapestry of eccentric experiences. For me, that friend is Stig. From the moment I met him, he’s been this unapologetically unique force of nature who thrives on making his own fun and living without regrets. Much like me, his life has been a series of “you can’t make this up” moments, all capture his strange and loveable spirit, including this story.

Back in the day, Stig had this peculiar, self-created pastime—one that was as weird as it was oddly brilliant. You see, he didn’t need a traditional job. Between working for his Gran in her trailer park (sometimes cheekily charging tenants for services he was technically already paid to do), selling random treasures at the flea market and dabbling in the art of the occasional hustle, he had more than enough to get by. But Stig wasn’t about the money—it was about the experience.

In true Stig fashion, he invented a quirky hobby: filling out job applications for random businesses around town, acing the interviews and negotiating wages he had no intention of accepting. Why? Out of sheer curiosity and a desire to see what the job market really looked like in our little corner of the world, Pace and Milton. He wanted to know what Gran's tenants might be earning, and, well, because it was fun to him.

I’ll never forget the day he told me, while we were lounging in one of his Gran's camper trailers, that he’d interviewed at every fast-food joint in town just “for shits and giggles.” When I told him I needed a job to escape my parents’ drama and make my own money, his advice was simple: "You’ll need to look out of town because I’ve been everywhere here already."

And that’s when he shared one of his funniest stories. Apparently, he once applied to McDonald’s in Milton, handed his application to a cashier and got a call back within hours. He suited up, went to the interview and met with a “manager” who couldn’t have been more than a year or two out of high school herself. After the standard questions, she hit him with something absurd: “Would you have a problem cleaning the restroom with a toothbrush if someone asked you to?”

Most people would balk, but not Stig. With a straight face, he replied, “Can I bring my own toothbrush so I don’t inconvenience you?” Oddly enough, she loved his answer. When she offered him the job on the spot, he not only declined but also gave her an impromptu lecture about inappropriate interview questions, poor management practices and the laughable pay.

That’s the thing about Stig—he’s never afraid to call out nonsense when he sees it. He’s always stood up for what’s right, whether it’s challenging a bad boss or helping a teenager negotiate fair pay for their first job. To this day, Stig remains that guy who looks out for others, ensuring they don’t start their working lives underpaid and undervalued.

Stig’s story reminds me that life is what you make of it. Whether you’re navigating job interviews or just trying to keep things interesting, a little humor and a lot of authenticity can go a long way. He’s proof that you don’t need to follow the conventional path to make an impact—sometimes, all it takes is staying true to who you are and lifting others as you go.

What about you? Do you have a friend with an equally wild or inspiring story? Share your thoughts in the comments below—I’d love to hear them! And hey, if Stig’s tale brought a smile to your face or sparked some nostalgia, consider showing us a little love by supporting the blog. Your kindness keeps these stories alive. 💛

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The Story of a Boy, His Shoes, and a Mother's Mean Streak: Stig's Payless Pro Wings

Pretty much Stig during his middle school years.

Growing up in Pace was not easy for any of us who didn't have much money. When Stig shared his story with me, it resonated deeply because I had a similar experience but not just with shoes but clothes from department stores like K-Mart, TG&Y and *Zayres. The kids we grew up with were a shallow bunch, and to this day some still are.

Stig's grandma did the most she could for her son's little boy because his mama, Barb, ruled his daddy's life and bank account and she resented Stig just for being born, “stealing every bit of fun she felt she deserved.” Stig's dad could have put his foot down, but it would have meant giving up whatever it was that she used to cast whatever spell she had on him. While not wealthy, Gran was well off enough to take care of him. On occasion, his parents would throw a bone, usually already chewed on.

A few days before he started the 6th grade, Gran took Stig to University Mall for a little shopping for new clothes for school. Stig's mom told her she already bought him some shoes and would drop the boxes off the night before, in time his first day. I remember Stig was excited because he thought his mama was going to be different for a change and take an interest in him. Gran spent around $400 on Stig’s new clothes—back then that was a lot for pants and shirts, even if she hadn’t taken him to the more expensive stores in University Mall. Gran took him to Chick-fil-A for dinner after their Saturday evening shopping spree. Stig was so excited to show off his new wardrobe to me and even more excited that Barb would be over later to drop off the three pairs of his brand new shoes.

He had worn flip flops all summer because a kid pushed him into Pond Creek and he came out missing one of his Reeboks that he worked hard to pay for after his other shoes were too tight to put on, much less walk in. He had thrown out his shoes from the previous year because his already large feet were too big for them and they were basically worn out. How often have you seen a 6th grader with size 11 shoes? He’s currently size 15. Stig and Gran both felt they should have stopped off at Athlete's Foot or Shoe City to buy a pair of British Knights, LA Gear, or another pair of Reeboks like the ones he had before the Pond Creek incident. We both went to school the next day, he went to a different school than me but when I got home, he called me to tell me how his day went and his Gran wanted to know if I wanted to go with them to Moores and Shoe City. I gladly tagged along. Our school district had a dress code that included no shorts or open-toed shoes, and as much as Stig wanted to wear his flip-flops to school, he couldn't.

Barb, Stig’s mama, played a cruel prank typical of her mean-spirited nature. Knowing that Stig's shoe size was currently size 11 and would probably be an 11.5 or 12 by next summer, she had gone to Payless Shoesource next to TG&Y and bought him three pairs of shoes: a pair of brown cowboy boots (Stig's calves were too defined even for the boots, and given the fact that he was already almost 6 feet tall, the heels would have made him uncomfortably tall), black fake suede dress shoes with tassels on the top that looked like something our old male teachers or preachers would wear, and the ones meant to be his shoes for everyday use—a pair of white Pro Wings sneakers, with velcro, which no kid wanted. Not only did she knowingly buy brands and styles that were horrible, but she also bought size 10, fully aware that he was a size 11 and could possibly be a size 12 by the time all three pairs were broken in. The kicker was she dropped his shoes off at 8 PM, knowing all the stores in our area were closed and he was stuck with ugly, out-of-style shoes that didn’t fit.

Being someone who never wanted to miss his first day at school, Stig crammed his feet into the Pro Wings shoes that were a size too small and endured a whole day of the other kids making fun of him and his cheap shoes. He could barely walk because his toes were scrunched up. To add salt to his wound, he was given two days detention for taking his shoes off in one of his classes. He had tried to loosen the velcro and had also taken off his socks to make more room in the shoes, but nothing worked. Gran called the school to raise hell, and the secretary hung up on her after telling her it was the guardian's responsibility to ensure the child had proper attire and his insubordination, which resulted in his detention, would not be tolerated by the staff. From that, Stig became a force to be reckoned with by virtue of Gran, and she told him to stand up for himself and take his shoes off in every class if he wanted to because she read the handbook, including the dress code and it never said wear shoes at all times—just no open-toed shoes.

In that particular class, which fell right after his PE class, he would slide out of the Nikes, British Knights or Reeboks Gran bought him to replace Barb’s horrible shoes and let everyone around him enjoy the aroma of his size 11s, sometimes removing his socks after PE just to make a point to his last-period teacher, the one that sent him to detention. Stig and I have laughed at this story for years and wondered if any of his classmates secretly enjoyed the revenge on that bitchy teacher. To this day, Stig stands up for himself, and when he's not sporting a pair of Doc Martens, Hokas, or Nikes, he is walking around showing off his bare size 15s.

Thanks for reading Stig's story! Got a similar tale or a funny school memory? Share it in the comments below. If this story resonated with you and you'd like to support us, your contributions would be greatly appreciated. Cheers to the resilience of kids like Stig!

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My friend Stig's account of Clutterer's Anonymous

Stig, is that you?

This wild adventure isn’t mine, folks—buckle up and dive into the eccentric world of my friend Stig! Enjoy the ride! 🚀

Hi, my wonderful friends. I recently attended my first Clutterers Anonymous meeting, and oh my goodness, I just do not know what to say about this organization. I felt like I was in the middle of filming an episode of "Antiques Roadshow." The sign-in sheet asked for our first name and our main items of clutter. Reading over the list felt as if I were perusing Craigslist or classified ads. One lady used six lines to list her main items of clutter, whereas I managed to fit my collections into one line and still had space left for a few more items if I wanted to be more honest with these people.

Now, I am not one to gossip, and I do not feel it is appropriate to mention the goings-on during a twelve-step meeting outside of the group. However, I must say that Clutterers Anonymous seemed less like a self-help group or meeting and more like a flea market or swap meet. As I read over the list, I noticed that the lady with the massive listing had included discarded cigarette packs within her clutter items. I smoke a few packs of Virginia Slim 100's a day and do not find this an item of interest. Moments before I entered the meeting, I noticed a lady digging through one of the outside trash cans, pulling out what I thought were pieces of paper. Once the meeting started, I realized that the same lady was in the meeting and remained quiet throughout. I soon noticed that she kept staring at my chest. It took only a few minutes for me to realize that she was staring at my pack of Virginia Slim Menthol 100's in my pocket.

Throughout the meeting, people stood up and shared stories of searching and answering classified and online ads, such as Craigslist and Freecycle, for their collections. As each person spoke, I noticed several attendees taking notes as if they were compiling shopping lists. When it was my turn, I stood and told everyone about my hobbies and collections, such as trial-size items, childhood Barbies and toys, replica vintage potholders, and various crafts that I have made over the years. I ended with a description of my replica of Damien Hirst's "Lullaby Spring." I noticed the cigarette lady licking her lips as I talked, all the while staring at my chest. When I finished, you could hear a pin drop. I felt as if I did not belong—like I was some kind of freak. I do not understand how people who collect items that varied from empty tea lights, burned-out lightbulbs, dead batteries, crushed cigarette packages, toilet paper rolls, paper clips, pencil shavings, carpet samples, plastic grocery bags, broken drill bits, potato chip packages, dryer lint, and old eyeshadow applicators could think that my collectibles were something freakish.

I was happy to be the last person to speak because the second the meeting let out, I wanted out the door. It took twenty minutes to get to the parking lot as many members of the group approached me. Not one welcomed me to the group; each inquired about items in my collection and made offers. I smoked my last two Virginia Slims, and no sooner than I walked away from the garbage can did I turn to see the cigarette lady retrieve the empty pack. I had to hail a cab to escape the urge to set myself ablaze and run down the street. I paid fifty-four dollars in total to ensure the cab driver circled my block and made figure eights around Los Angeles to make sure I was not being followed.

I called my doctor this morning, and he called in a prescription for Xanax at the Rite Aid on Wilshire. I have been too scared to leave my condo today and called out of work tonight. I even offered one of the clerks at the pharmacy a hundred dollars in cash to bring the Xanax to my condo. Unfortunately, no one from the store would, so I have taken a Valium and a Klonopin from my "Lullaby Spring" display. I hope I never run into any of those people in A.A., N.A., or S.A.

Thank you for reading, Stig Ren