A hotshot big-city lawyer went duck hunting in rural North Carolina. He shot and bagged a bird, but it sailed over a fence and landed directly in a farmer’s field.
As the lawyer began climbing the fence to retrieve his prize, an elderly farmer named Peter rumbled up on his tractor. “What do you think you’re doing on my land?” Peter asked.
The smug litigator replied, “I shot a duck, it fell in your field, and now I’m going to get it.”
“This is my property,” the farmer said flatly. “And you’re not crossing that fence.”
Indignant, the lawyer puffed out his chest. “Listen here, old man. I am one of the top trial lawyers in the United States. If you don’t let me get that duck, I will sue you for everything you own, including this dirt!”
The farmer smiled calmly. “Well, out here in North Carolina, we don’t care much for courtrooms. We settle small disagreements like this with our local custom: the Three Kick Rule.”
The lawyer sneered. “What on earth is the Three Kick Rule?”
“Since we’re on my land, I get to kick you three times as hard as I can,” Peter explained. “Then, you get to kick me three times. We go back and forth until one of us gives up and yields the dispute.”
The lawyer sized up the old-timer, figured he could easily take him, and agreed to the local arbitration.
The farmer slowly climbed down from his tractor and walked over. His first kick, delivered by a heavy, steel-toed work boot, connected squarely with the lawyer’s groin, dropping him to his knees. His second kick to the midriff had the lawyer gasping and coughing up his lunch. The third kick, planted firmly on the lawyer’s backside, sent him flying face-first into a fresh, messy cow pie.
Summoning every ounce of willpower and remaining strength, the lawyer slowly dragged himself up. Wiping the manure from his face with his sleeve, he wheezed, “Alright, old man… now it’s my turn!”
The farmer smiled, turned back toward his tractor, and said,
“Nah, I give up. You can have the duck.”
