Roper James, a sharp-suited lawyer from Melbourne with shoes shinier than a politician’s promises, decided to take a short vacation in a small country town. He’d grown tired of traffic, lattes with too much foam, and arguing over legal loopholes in office air-conditioning policies.
One quiet Sunday morning, he wandered the sleepy streets of the town, soaking in the peaceful air, when he came upon a large, noisy crowd gathered outside what looked like an old shed.
Curious—and ever suspicious of unregulated gatherings—Roper pushed his way to the front.
Inside was chaos. A massive pig was standing on a wooden box like a judge behind a bench. People were shouting, chickens were squawking in the gallery, and one man appeared to be cross-examining a goat.
“Excuse me,” Roper asked an elderly farmer in a straw hat, “What in the Queen’s name is going on here?”
The farmer grinned. “Country court, mate.”
“Country court?!”
“Yep. Every Sunday, folks from all around bring their disputes here. Old Betsy the pig’s the judge.”
Roper blinked twice. “You’re telling me this pig handles actual cases?”
“Sure does. Never lost a trial. Sharp as a tack, that one.”
Roper tried not to laugh. “She’s a pig.”
“She’s also the only one in town who doesn’t take sides.”
Just then, a man burst into the room. “Objection! That rooster trespassed on my tomato patch again!”
Betsy let out a firm snort.
The farmer whispered, “That’s her way of saying ‘Noted.’”
The man continued, “And then the rooster insulted my scarecrow by dancing on its head!”
Another snort.
Suddenly intrigued, Roper asked, “Do you mind if I participate?”
“Be our guest,” the farmer said. “Got a dispute with anyone?”
Roper thought. “Well… I did buy a pie from a roadside stand yesterday, and it had no filling.”
Gasps rippled through the room. An old woman clutched her pearls.
Roper continued, “It was advertised as apple, and all I got was crust. Dry crust. I nearly filed a case of emotional damage.”
The crowd stepped back. The pie lady was in the corner, holding her rolling pin like it was Exhibit A.
Betsy gave the most dramatic snort of the morning.
The farmer whispered, “That’s her way of saying, ‘This court will hear your case.’”
Roper squared his shoulders. “Thank you, Your Honour.”
He turned to the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen—er, and livestock—I stand before you, not just as a lawyer, but as a victim of a tragic pastry betrayal!”
Someone gasped. A sheep fainted.
Roper continued, “I was promised sweet, warm apples, nestled in flaky pastry. Instead, I got cardboard disguised as dessert. This is not just about pie—it’s about trust!”
The pie lady shouted, “That pie was made with love!”
“Then love is dry and empty!” Roper fired back.
The courtroom went silent.
Betsy slowly walked to the pie tin, sniffed it, and gave a low grunt.
The farmer translated, “She finds the defendant guilty of false pie presentation.”
Cheers erupted. The pie lady was sentenced to one week of baking only for the town’s goats until she re-learned the art of filling.
As for Roper, he was awarded ten fresh pies and made honorary “Legal Bacon Associate of the Court,” a title he proudly added to his LinkedIn.
From then on, whenever big-city lawyers got too full of themselves, Roper told them, “You haven’t practiced real law until you’ve cross-examined a chicken in front of a pig.”
