Taking Care of Bidness

You know how people put up handmade signs at crossroads? They often advertise yard sales or free puppies or, more typically down he-ah in the South, bush-hogging, because really. Nobody likes to do their own bush-hoggin' anymore.


Today, as I was driving home, I stopped at the four-way, and I saw a hand-lettered sign stuck in the ground right under the old election posters.

Outhouse Call

it said.

Now I'm a very curious sort by nature, and I have questions regarding the information on this sign.

1. I knew that Randomville can tend to be a little ... backwards. But just how far back in time are we operating, when people have to do their "bidness" outdoors?

2. Maybe the outhouse got lost and it doesn't know its home number. Maybe this is a way for it to stop eating with the pigs and come home to the open arms of its loving ... er ... father? The Prodigal Outhouse.

3. Is it like a duck call? Like, maybe there's a national contest to see who can do the best imitation of an outhouse in heat. And then the winner gets to go on Letterman and make a noise like an outhouse. Which, aside from being sort of gross, would also be AWESOME, you know it's true.

4. How much money could you make as an Outhouse Engineer? Do they offer that as a major in college? What are the internships like?

Of course I was very tired and maybe a little giddy when I saw this sign. That may explain why I thought about it all the way home (one minute, 24 seconds).

Later in the afternoon, I was driving back into town, and I saw the other side of that sign.

73 x 13

it said. I had no questions this time; only one thing came to mind:

"Dang," I thought. "That is one big crapper."


jeanne said...

you are so funny!

Lady S said...

I gotta know more! call that number.

Maybe it is inches, not feet.

Mei said...

Thanks, jeanne!
I'm scared to call that number, lady s. People who have dealings with outhouses don't mess around. They might not get my jokes and I could wind up in a third-rate imitation Deliverance thing and even though I love those banjos, I do not, repeat: NOT, want to end up squealing like a pig.


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