Farmer John had spent most of his life on a peaceful, winding country road nestled deep in the rolling hills of a rural farming community. For years, the road remained quiet, disturbed only by the occasional tractor, a neighbor’s pickup truck, or the distant rumble of thunder. It was the kind of place where people left their doors unlocked and the loudest sound was the clucking of chickens in the morning.
But as the years passed, things began to change. A new bypass was built connecting nearby towns, and before long, what was once a sleepy dirt road had become a shortcut for commuters speeding between cities. The traffic didn’t just increase—it exploded. What used to be the occasional car became a daily flood of fast-moving vehicles, zooming by like they were late for a fire.
The worst part? The traffic wasn’t just a nuisance—it was deadly. Farmer John’s chickens, who had roamed freely across his land for generations, started turning up dead. Every day, he’d find three, sometimes even six, of his beloved hens flattened on the pavement like sad little pancakes.
Enough was enough.
One morning, fed up and frustrated, Farmer John picked up the phone and dialed the sheriff’s office.
“Sheriff,” he said, his voice tight with anger, “you’ve got to do something about these lunatics flying down the road. They’re mowing down my chickens like it’s a sport!”
The sheriff, who had heard his share of odd complaints, replied with a bit of weariness, “Well, John, what exactly do you expect me to do about it?”
“I don’t care what you do,” John snapped, “just do something! These drivers are insane!”
Wanting to calm him down and avoid a repeat of the lengthy complaint call, the sheriff agreed to send the county workers out the next morning. By lunchtime, a shiny new sign had been installed just a few feet from Farmer John’s driveway. It read:
SLOW – SCHOOL CROSSING
Three days passed. Then the phone rang again at the sheriff’s office.
“Sheriff,” John growled, “your sign’s made it worse! Now they’re going even faster!”
The sheriff sighed. “Alright, alright, we’ll try something else.”
This time, the county workers returned and swapped the sign with another, hoping it would do the trick. The new one read:
SLOW: CHILDREN AT PLAY
Surely this would tug at the heartstrings of passing drivers. But instead of slowing down, the traffic only seemed to pick up speed—as if the words were some kind of challenge.
For the next three weeks, Farmer John called the sheriff every single day. Sometimes twice. The conversation always started the same way: “They’re still killing my chickens!” and ended with, “Do something!”
Finally, one day, at the end of his patience, the sheriff sighed heavily and said, “Alright, John. You know what? Put up your own sign. Whatever you think will work. Just... please stop calling me every day.”
John was thrilled. “You got it, Sheriff!” he said with unusual cheer, then promptly hung up.
Weeks passed. Not a single call from Farmer John. No complaints, no reports of flattened poultry—just silence. Curious (and maybe a little nervous), the sheriff picked up the phone and gave him a call.
“Hey John, just checking in. How’s the situation with the traffic? Did you put up that sign?”
“Oh, I sure did,” John said proudly. “And not a single chicken’s been touched since. But I can’t talk—I’m swamped with work. Gotta run!”
Click. He hung up.
Now more intrigued than ever, the sheriff decided to take a drive out to the farm himself. As he approached, he slowed his cruiser, scanning the roadside. Then he saw it.
There, nailed to a makeshift post by the edge of the road, was a large, crudely painted wooden sign. In big, bold red letters, it read:
NUDIST COLONY – SLOW DOWN AND WATCH FOR NAKED PEOPLE
The sheriff’s mouth dropped open. He burst out laughing, slapping the steering wheel in disbelief.
And from that day forward, the speeding stopped. Not a single driver dared to race down that road again.