Joke: Three Kick Rule

A shiny BMW and a dusty old pickup screeched nose-to-nose, both lunging for the last open parking spot in the gravel lot. Tires squealed, horns blared, brakes locked.

The yuppie in a suit slammed his door and stormed out, scowling at the truck. From behind the massive pickup came the crunch of **heavy steel-toe work boots** on gravel. He stiffened, bracing for some burly redneck to appear.

Instead, a pretty little blonde in Daisy Dukes stepped into view, smiling sweet as can be. She tipped her cowboy hat lightly.

The yuppie barked a laugh. *“Figures. A woman driver. Move that piece of junk out of my way, you hick. I’ve got an important business meeting to get to and I’m in a hurry.”*

Still smiling, she answered in a honey-soft drawl, *“Well, I been workin’ the farm all day and I’m in a hurry to get inside for a beer. We could stand here arguin’ all night… or we can settle this in a hurry an’ both be on our way. You ever heard of the three-kick rule? That’s how we do things ’round these parts.”*

He frowned. *“Never heard of it.”*

She shrugged sweetly. *“Simple. First, I kick you between the legs three times. Then you kick me three times. We keep goin’ till one of us gives up. Fair?”*

He sized her up — five-three, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. Harmless. He waved a hand. *“Fine, whatever.”*

She drew her leg back and drove her steel toe square between his legs. The blow landed with a deep *THUD* that echoed off the wall. His eyes bulged, a squeal ripped out of him, and he dropped to his knees, gagging and rocking forward. She waited with an amused smirk. *“Come on now, git back up an’ spread ’em. I thought you was in a hurry!”*

Wheezing, pale, and trembling, he forced himself upright.

She swung again, just as hard. *WHUMP.* He collapsed onto his side in the gravel, curling up tight in the fetal position, sobbing and squeaking in a broken, high-pitched wail. She looked down with a wide grin. *“Hurry it up, big shot. We ain’t got all night.”*

Shaking, doubled over, tears streaking his cheeks, he somehow staggered back onto his feet.

Then she planted herself and slammed her boot home a third time. The moment it landed, there was a **sickening wet crunch that echoed across the whole lot**. He shrieked in falsetto and rolled in the gravel, clutching himself, legs kicking weakly, voice cracking into shrill squeaks. She stood over him with a huge, satisfied smile and a knowing look, even giggling as he writhed helplessly.

At last, after forever, he staggered upright again — legs shaking, drenched in sweat, lips quivering, his face wet with tears — his high-pitched voice up in the soprano range: *“O-okay… my turn now, right?”*

She looked him over and laughed. Then, still smiling, she said, *“Nah, I give up. You can have the parking spot. Hope you weren’t plannin’ on havin’ kids.”*