The Karmel Korn Confession
Our first date was dinner, horror, and a Karmel Korn catastrophe. I tried to impress Tina by playing it cool after spilling caramel popcorn across the movie theater floor. She didn’t run. She married me. That’s the story. That’s Crunch Life.
How the Dirty Little Glover Boys Got Their Name
Before we were legends—chat-dusted, grinning, and marked by the joy of a day well lived.
The name “Dirty Little Glover Boys” started as a screen-door shout from a kid across the street. We didn’t take offense—we claimed it. And we’ve been wearing it like a badge ever since.
Mo-Kan Mayhem
I clipped a rogue tire on the last turn and went airborne—sky, pavement, sky, pavement, repeat. When the smoke cleared, I was upright, shredded, barefoot, and straddling a smoking go-kart like I meant to do it. No trophy. Just scars, laughter, and a helmet with a fresh flattop.
The Moon Shot
Before I ever fired a shot, I was trapped in a camper shell with a gassy dog, freezing my tail off, and trying not to pass out. By sundown, I’d botched the flush of a lifetime, dodged my own shotgun spray, and earned a nickname I’ll never live down. This is how one hunting trip in Red Cloud, Nebraska, went from moon shot to punchline—and why my dog still gets the last laugh.
Valiant Pond Dive
What started as a joyride turned into a mud-splattered rescue mission when our car high-centered in a pond—just an hour before kickoff. With our football jerseys soaked, our jeans stuck with tadpole slime, and the starting offensive line still missing from the bus, we had to claw our way out of Lawyers Pond, beat the clock, and prove once again that in Picher, survival was half the game.
Dirt Daubers
What started as a simple backyard ballgame turned into an all-out aerial assault after one perfect swing clanged off an old metal fence post—home to a very angry swarm of dirt daubers. Dennis ran. I hesitated. Bad call. Ten seconds later, I was shirtless, screaming, and getting lit up like a Fourth of July sparkler. The aftermath involved a makeshift ER, a can of Prince Albert tobacco, and a peanut gallery of laughing neighborhood boys. And when the swelling finally went down… I brought the kerosene.
Set The Floor Afire
A homemade basketball goal. A spilled gas can. One match too many. What started as a trick-shot contest turned into a garage explosion, a flying drumstick, and a mama covered in flour. We didn’t just light up the court—we nearly torched the house. Welcome to Pearl Street physics, Chat Rat style.
Big Blue and the Pearl Street Boys
A giant inner tube. A towering chat pile. One brave (and very unlucky) cousin. What started as a dare turned into a downhill disaster, complete with airborne wipeouts, dusty rescues, and a retirement no one challenged. Big Blue delivered the ride of a lifetime—and reminded us why no one wants to go first.
Goosed
A backyard rinse turned into a full-contact goose brawl when Dennis got bit mid-thigh by a furious mother defending her nest. What followed was part slapstick, part survival instinct, and all chaos. One goose, one brother, zero dignity—and a memory that still makes me laugh every time Great White comes on.
The Bobcat Squall
My grandfather didn’t just tell stories—he summoned them. With a voice like gravel and a bobcat squall that made dogs bark and kids jump, Grandad Ben turned every porch into a stage. His stories shaped me, stayed with me, and now I’m writing them down before they vanish for good.
Bacon Busters
We turned a pig pen into a rodeo ring, climbed the A-frame like stuntmen, and launched ourselves onto an angry sow named Suzy Q. The rides were wild, the landings rough, and Dad’s reaction? Legendary. Bacon Bustin’ wasn’t just a sport—it was summer survival, Pearl Street-style.
Stripes
A backyard go-kart ride turned airborne disaster when my brother slammed the brakes—and I became a human launch ramp. Mud flew, engines screamed, and my Batman shirt took a hit it would never recover from. No helmets, no regrets—just the Glover way: full speed, no brakes, and always a good story.
Chat Rat Physics
One shiny new minibike. One homemade launch ramp. And one wide-eyed kid named Ronnie who didn’t know what he was in for. This is the story of how gravity, plywood, and two wild Glover boys turned a summer stunt into legend—and why some scars fade, but the stories never do.