They called them “speed humps,” but what the HOA installed were basically giant blocks of concrete.
No signs, no reflective paint—just dumped in overnight like booby traps across the road.
The complaints started instantly.
Neighbors shredded their tires, cars bottomed out, one Prius even got stranded on top of one.
When people asked for answers, the HOA president, Melinda, brushed it off.
She claimed the neighborhood needed “traffic calming.”
Easy for her to say—she drove a lifted Escalade.
Then Jimmy hit one.
And Jimmy doesn’t let things slide.
His bumper cracked, his frame bent. The very next morning, he printed 500 flyers with pictures of his wrecked car and the board members’ email addresses. He handed them out door-to-door—twice.
But that was just the beginning.
Three days later, the sound of drilling echoed down the street. Jimmy was out there in a neon vest, cones set up, jackhammer in hand.
When the cops pulled up, everyone thought he was done for.
But Jimmy didn’t even blink.
He showed them a clipboard with an “official-looking” logo that read Neighborhood Infrastructure Assessment.
He pointed at the cones, the vest, the rented jackhammer, and said:
“I’m removing a public hazard. You’re welcome.”
The officers looked at each other, whispered, and then—shockingly—told him to “be careful” before driving off.
We were floored. The guy had literally jackhammered HOA property and walked away with police approval.
The next day, instead of apologizing, Melinda sent out a newsletter. The headline?
“We Appreciate Resident Feedback.”
Jimmy taped that newsletter to the chunk of demolished speed hump he left in the road. For two weeks, cars drove around it like it was a modern art piece.
But Melinda wasn’t done.
Another newsletter arrived—this time with fancy graphics of happy families biking. It announced Phase Two of the HOA Beautification Project. Translation? Three more speed humps.
Jimmy nearly exploded.
He marched to Melinda’s house, newsletter in hand. I was mowing my lawn and saw the whole showdown.
“If you add more of these things,” he warned, “I’ll turn this street into gravel.”
Melinda smirked. “Touch HOA property again, and I’ll sue you.”
That’s when Jimmy smiled—not cocky, but calm. Like a man already two steps ahead.
Two days later, a group of us got an email invite from him:
Subject: Neighborhood Watch Meeting (With Snacks).
We didn’t even have a neighborhood watch, but fifty people showed up in Jimmy’s garage. There were Costco cookies, lemonade, and his laptop hooked up to a projector.
Jimmy laid out everything—photos, repair bills, even a statement from Mrs. Caldwell, who tripped walking her poodle over a hump.
Then he revealed the knockout punch: the HOA bylaws.
Turns out, any project over $5,000 needed a community vote.
The speed humps? $9,400. Approved by Melinda and her brother-in-law’s contracting company. No vote.
The room erupted.
Jimmy closed his laptop and said:
“We can challenge this. We just need thirty signatures.”
That night, he got seventy-eight.
The HOA had no choice but to hold an emergency meeting.
Jimmy walked in like a lawyer—calm and collected. Melinda tried to throw out the petition because it wasn’t in the “right font.”
Yes, really.
But Greg, a retired librarian and board member, cut her off.
“In twelve years, we’ve never required a font. This stands.”
Boom.
A vote was scheduled. On a rainy Saturday, neighbors showed up with umbrellas and folding chairs. Out of 124 eligible homeowners, 93 voted to rip the speed humps out.
By Monday, the same crew that installed them was back—this time tearing them up while neighbors cheered. One guy even blasted We Are the Champions from his garage.
Then the final twist dropped.
An anonymous packet showed up in mailboxes with proof that Melinda’s brother-in-law had overcharged the HOA for the project. The inflated invoice was soon in the hands of the county inspector and the local news.
Within weeks, Melinda resigned “for personal reasons.”
Jimmy? He didn’t run for president.
He nominated Greg instead, saying: “I’m better as the watchdog.”
Greg won by a landslide. And under his leadership, we finally got real traffic solutions: solar radar speed signs instead of concrete barricades. No more wrecked cars. No more drama.
Looking back, it was never about a busted bumper.
It was about fairness. About neighbors standing up when leadership ignored them.
Now, when I pass Jimmy’s yard, I always smile at the sign he painted himself:
“No More Humps. Yes to Common Sense.”
Because sometimes, the fight isn’t about what’s in the road.
It’s about making sure people have a voice in the place they call home.