You know you live in Booneyville when...

potential house guests offer to nip you out to dinner at your best local restaurant as a reward for you letting them stay in the country.  When you get off the floor (having collapsed from laughter) you give them the options:  Biker Bar Restaurant/Pizza Place/Pizza Place/Soft Serve Stand.

the people you refer to as "neighbors" live more than a mile away.

you are late to work because your neighbor's calf got separated from his mama and was in the middle of the road, where you had to come to a full stop, then pull over and put your blinkers on, then shoo the little dogie in a zig-zag pattern a quarter mile down the road and up their driveway, where his frantic mother is bellowing.  You then retrace your steps (without the zig-zag) and call your neighbor about his loose calf.  This is the same neighbor who will NEVER answer their phone even though you know they are home.  So you leave a nice message and drive to work.

90% of the highway (using the term loosely) crew are related to each other.  And none of them know what they're doing.

you stop for a deer; a porcupine, a hen turkey and her poults, another deer, another deer, a groundhog (yes, I stopped), and another turkey within two miles of home.

you don't bother getting the local newspaper because you can find out the REAL news by going to the dairy farm down the road when the older members of the farm have gathered to "help" the farmer (meaning opening the door of their respective pickups - all red Fords - and jawing for hours).

you open your mailbox to find:  your mail; a pint of maple syrup made by a neighbor with a thank you note for the vegetables you left in HIS mailbox; your t-shirt borrowed by another neighbor, washed and dried, with a thank you note as well.

I L.O.V.E. Booneyville.