You Might Be A Redneck If... Your Parade Float Has An Outhouse!

Now where is my camera when I actually need it?! Of course, not in the truck, not in my purse, and definitely not in my hand—because otherwise, I'd have photographic proof instead of folks trusting my “I-swear-I-saw-this” version of events.

It started innocently enough. I was in town on the 4th of July, running errands and pretending I was “just swinging by for one thing.” (The biggest lie since “the check’s in the mail.”) I cruised past the parade float lineup—pure Northern New England Americana in all its glory: patriotic bunting flapping in the wind, kids sticky with popsicle juice, fire trucks so polished they could blind you, and the high school band wheezing out “Yankee Doodle”. Even the Boy Scouts were there, standing at attention like little soldiers bribed with root beer floats and the promise of extra s’mores at the next campfire.

And then… it happened.

A float that stopped me dead and made me rethink what had brought me to this curb.

I don’t know what group, company, or loose coalition of third cousins twice removed sponsored this thing, but what it lacked in branding it more than made up for in sheer, unapologetic commitment. Imagine a hillbilly porch slapped on a trailer, overalls (shirts optional), a couple of guys with guitars—two of which were actually in use—and, the crown jewel: an outhouse.

Not just any outhouse. This one had only the bottom half of the walls. Waist-up? On full display for Main Street to enjoy. And inside—sitting proud, serene, and apparently at peace with all his life choices—was a man leafing through what looked like a vintage Sears catalog, as if auditioning for “Rustic Bathroom Chic: The Calendar.” And to top it off, t
hey were playing “Ode to the Little Brown Shack Out Back.” (If you’re not familiar with this, it’s a little ditty sung by Billy Edd Wheeler in the 1960s—a sentimental ballad to, you guessed it, the outhouse. Go ahead, look it up!)

I wish I was making this up. I’m not. My imagination isn’t this deranged.

The man had the air of someone living his absolute truth. He might have been humming. I don’t know—I was too busy praying to every saint in the book that they weren’t about to toss Tootsie Rolls into the crowd. Because we all know exactly what that would’ve looked like.

It’s not the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in this town. . . but it’s a firm top-five contender.

So here’s the takeaway from the curbside, front-row seat to pure Americana:
You might be a redneck if you ride in an outhouse in a parade—I assume fully clothed, catalog in hand, waving to the crowd like you’re the Grand Marshal of Bathroom Breaks.

And yes, even in Northern New Hampshire—where duct tape is legal tender, and your neighbor’s goat might be better dressed than you, somehow. . . this still won’t be the strangest thing I see all summer.

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