You Might Be a Chat Rat If…
You don’t become a Chat Rat—you just wake up one day with a BB gun scar, a pocket full of chat gravel, and a story that starts with, “Okay, don’t tell Mom…” Growing up in Picher meant living by our own code: gravity was optional, pain was temporary, and pride was non-negotiable. This one’s for everyone who ever raced a bike down a tailings pile or tried to ride a pig like a bronco. If you know, you know.
You Might Be a Chat Rat If…
The best part of your education happened outside—on rooftops, in tree forts, or behind the shed with a screwdriver and bad intentions.
Your childhood injuries outnumber your baby pictures.
You still think common sense is overrated and consequences are just a speed bump.
The phrase “don’t try this at home” only made you try harder.
You hear a screen door slam and still half expect your name to get hollered from the porch.
You could name at least five chat piles by landmark alone…
You wore more dust than denim, more scars than sunscreen, and more pride than brains…
You ever belly-flopped off a high dive just to impress a girl sunbathing in baby oil and iodine…
Related: Twelve Miles to Cool
The phrase “wait for the squeal, but jump before the snort” made perfect sense to you…
Related: Bacon Busters
You used a BB gun and a honeysuckle bush to stage the greatest sneak attack in the history of Pearl Street War Games…
Related: War Games
How many of these hit home?
Drop your favorite in the comments—or tag someone who still has dust in their veins and mischief in their bones. And if you’re hungry for more stories from the edge of reason, keep following Chat Rat Chronicles. I’ve got a whole memoir in the works, and trust me… we’re just getting warmed up.
Follow along at facebook.com/RealChatRat and share this post if you survived your own full-speed stupid days.