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 you'd be seeing this with your eyeballs instead of having to trust that I'm not just having a small-town fever dream.

It all started innocently enough. I was in town on the 4th of July, running errands and pretending I was just going to “swing by for one thing.” (We all know that lie.) I happened to cruise past the lineup for the parade floats—and let me tell you, it was all exactly what you’d expect from a good ol’ Northern New England celebration: patriotic bunting flapping in the wind, kids already sticky with popsicle juice, fire trucks polished to the point of blinding, and the high school band giving “Yankee Doodle” their best wheezy shot. The Boy Scouts were there too, standing at attention like little soldiers bribed with root beer floats and the promise of not having to clean the latrine at camp.

And then... there it was.

A float that stopped me dead in my tracks and made me question every life choice that had led me to this moment.

I don’t know what company, group, or loose confederation of cousins this float represented, but what it lacked in branding it more than made up for in... commitment. Picture this: a makeshift hillbilly porch setup on a trailer. There were folks in full denim overalls (shirt optional, apparently), a few guys with guitars, only two of which were actually being played, and then the pièce de résistance: an outhouse.

Not just any outhouse. This one had only the bottom half of the walls. That's right, waist-up was just out there for the whole town to see. And seated inside—proudly, confidently, unbothered—was a man flipping through what looked to be an old Sears catalog like he was auditioning for the centerfold.

I am not making this up. Not even my imagination is that twisted.

He sat there with the air of a man who knew he was living his truth. He might’ve even been humming. I’m not sure—I was too busy laughing and praying to every saint I could think of that they weren’t planning to toss Tootsie Rolls into the crowd. Because we all know what that would’ve looked like.

I’m not saying it was the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in this town… but it’s top five. Easy.

So here’s your life lesson from the roadside front row of Americana:

You might be a redneck if you ride in an outhouse on a parade float, pants up or down, catalog in hand, and zero shame in your game. Yes, even in Northern New Hampshire, where duct tape is currency and your neighbor’s goat might be better dressed than you.

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