The Very Angry Frog Observes the Human Suffering Caused by Road Bumps
I am merely a frog. A small, damp, green observer of human behaviour. I sit on the roadside, minding my own business, occasionally eating a fly, occasionally judging a passing dog. But lately, I have found myself watching a new spectacle—one so absurd, so chaotic, so unnecessarily violent—that even my amphibian brain struggles to comprehend it.
I am talking, of course, about road bumps.
Not ordinary bumps. Not modest humps. No, I mean the towering, car‑crunching, suspension‑shattering monstrosities that humans have scattered across their roads like some kind of asphalt plague. And let me be clear: these things are ruining human lives. I have seen it. I have witnessed it. I have heard the scraping noises. I have watched the drivers wince. I have seen the undercarriages cry.
From my vantage point—low to the ground, perfectly positioned for maximum observation—I watch humans approach these bumps with a mixture of dread and resignation. The car slows. The driver leans forward, gripping the wheel as though preparing for impact. The vehicle climbs the bump like a reluctant mountain goat. Then comes the descent: a violent drop, a thud, and the unmistakable sound of metal meeting road in a way metal was never meant to.
I have seen cars bottom out so hard that the driver’s soul briefly leaves their body.
And the height—oh, the height! Some of these bumps are so tall I’m convinced they were designed by someone who hates cars. Someone who wakes up every morning thinking, “How can I make sure every driver in this town needs a new exhaust by Friday?” These bumps are not traffic calmers. They are suspension destroyers. They are tyre tormentors. They are mechanical torture devices disguised as safety features.
Then there’s the number of them. Humans have not installed bumps sparingly or thoughtfully. No, they have installed them with the enthusiasm of someone sprinkling sugar on cereal. One bump every few metres. One at the start of the road, one at the end, one in the middle, one outside the school, one outside the shop, one outside the house of the man who once complained about speeding in 1998. It’s relentless. It’s excessive. It’s a full‑body workout for any car attempting to travel more than twenty feet.
I have watched drivers navigate these roads like contestants in a bizarre obstacle course. They slow to a crawl, then accelerate aggressively between bumps, then slam on the brakes again. Their heads bob. Their passengers bounce. Their coffee spills. Their suspension begs for mercy.
And the noises—oh, the noises. I hear scraping, clunking, rattling, and the occasional muffled swear word drifting out of a half‑open window. I have seen hubcaps fly off. I have seen exhaust pipes drag. I have seen a bumper detach itself entirely and roll down the street like a sad, defeated wheel of cheese.
Humans call these things “sleeping policemen.” Let me assure you: if an actual policeman were lying across the road, humans would not drive over him. They would stop. They would call someone. They would ask questions. But when it’s a lump of asphalt pretending to be a napping constable, they plough over it with reckless abandon, destroying their cars in the process.
And here’s the part that truly baffles me: humans accept this. They complain, yes. They mutter, they groan, they glare at the bump as though it personally insulted their mother. But they still drive over it. They still endure the damage. They still pay the repair bills. They still pretend this is normal.
Meanwhile, I sit on the kerb, watching the madness unfold, wondering how a species capable of building skyscrapers, inventing electricity, and sending machines to Mars cannot design a road that doesn’t resemble a badly made quilt.
But here’s the serious bit—the part where my amphibian ranting gives way to something more thoughtful. These bumps, for all their supposed purpose, do not actually make roads safer. They do not reduce accidents. They do not improve driving behaviour. They simply force drivers to endure constant mechanical punishment while doing nothing to address the real issues: poor visibility, bad road layouts, lack of wildlife crossings, and general human impatience.
If humans truly want safer roads, they need fewer bumps, not more. They need smarter solutions, not taller obstacles. They need proper crossings, better signage, clearer layouts, and maybe—just maybe—a moment of reflection before installing yet another car‑destroying mound of asphalt.
So yes, I am an angry frog. But I am also a concerned observer. Because while I may get bounced around by the shockwaves, it is humans who suffer the real consequences: broken cars, empty wallets, and daily commutes that feel like off‑road expeditions.
And from where I sit, watching the chaos unfold, I can only conclude one thing: the bumps are too high, too many, and too ridiculous. And humans deserve better.
The Very Angry Frog 