By sunrise, Lula had escalated from hollering to full‑contact foolishness.

She’d built a blockade in front of the empty mailbox post using:

two lawn chairs older than the county

a kiddie pool with a slow leak

three traffic cones she “rescued” from a ditch

a one‑eyed ceramic rooster

and a cardboard sign that said “NO FEDRAL BOXES” (spelled like she lost the fight with the alphabet)

But the real comedy started when Lula whipped out her phone and declared:

“I’m callin’ Code Enforcement!”

Now, Liberty County Code Enforcement is…

well…

a rumor.

Their entire department consists of:

one man

one truck

zero urgency

and a clipboard he uses mostly as a lunch tray

When Lula called, the phone rang in his truck, where he was:

asleep

under a pecan tree

holding a melted gas‑station burrito like a comfort object

He answered with the professionalism of a man who has given up:

“Is it on fire?”

Lula screamed, “NO!”

He said, “Then it ain’t my problem,”

and hung up to finish his nap.

Meanwhile, the Tenant With a Spine stepped around Lula’s blockade — chai tea in hand, cats supervising — like she was sidestepping yard debris after a storm.

No speeches.

No bragging.

No drama.

Just a woman walking past nonsense like she’s been doing it her whole life.

And that’s when Liberty County learned:

Lula can build all the barricades she wants —

but she can’t stop progress with a kiddie pool, a rooster, and a phone call to the county’s sleepiest department.