Chat Rats Loose in Prague
Everywhere we go, somebody’s staring. We’re not doing anything special—just laughing loud and talking like we always have. But apparently, two grinning Oklahoma boys with wives in tow sound like a tornado warning in a library over here.
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.
Twelve Miles to Cool
The summer before we could drive, we chased cool on ten-speeds—twelve blistering miles from Picher to Riverview Pool. What started as a ride for freedom became a journey into sunburns, daredevil dives, and baby oil goddesses. We thought we were chasing cool. But we were just riding home.
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.
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.