These are mostly true tales of me wreaking havoc on those around me for the amusement of myself and others. I started as a preschooler getting into mischief out of pure boredom, usually at school. It continued through grade school, junior high, high school, the military, college, my first job . . . My very first booby trap was balancing a teddy bear on top of my slightly open bedroom door to fall on the head of anyone who entered. I only wish that I hadn't forgotten something and ran back in there . . . and I REALLY wished that I hadn't use the heavy teddy bear with the really hard music box . . . I was probably three years old. My second booby trap, and the most infamous within our family, utilized a battery-powered, motorized, futuristic toy assault vehicle. It was silver, sleek, aerodynamic, made of metal and had sharp edges and bright lead-based paint. It had six giant wheels with knobby tires. The body would pivot 180 degrees while rolling in one direction and the side-gunner's door would snap open and sparks would fly and a red light would flash as the toy Space Marine mowed down imaginary space monsters. I was almost 4 years old. I used the round posts on my bed as a series of pulleys around which I wrapped yarn to ensure the proper directional pull on the ON switch so when my mother opened the door to my room, the yarn pulled the switch on the mechanical death machine and it rolled out from under the bed, spun around, as the side door flipped open and a gunner with dual laser cannons began to lay down cover fire toward the door of my room. I'm not sure if my mother had learned to levitate, or if she had previously been bitten by a radio active spider, but by the time I awoke from a deep slumber the hysterical screaming had stopped and she was gracefully (yeah right) returning to earth pointing frantically and speaking in tongues. I must be gifted, because I clearly heard, "Would you please turn off your wake-up alarm?" I think my mother may have been surprised . . . It's almost always best to be nice to people, however, sometime you just HAVE to shake up your buddy's beer before you hand it to him. I hope you enjoy reading these tales as much as I enjoyed remembering them and writing them down.
About the Author: Born in Indiana where the very first prank occurred, the author moved to Michigan at a young age where he learned to solve problems like how to transport a large snapping turtle, or how to free yourself from the marsh muck after falling through the ice. His pranking skills improved through high school and he graduated from Mount Clemens High before shipping off to the Marine Corps where he discovered that he was not a musician, but a technician, a technician with new skills including camouflage and electronics. His pranks had just gotten an Uncle Sam upgrade. A few years in the desert encouraged R.G. Grover to head back home to Michigan where he got married, had kids, received his engineering bachelor's degree in 2003, a black belt in karate with his 10-year-old son in 2011 and is currently living, and pranking happily ever after in Plymouth, Michigan.