Wyoming Outhouse Jokes
OUTHOUSE HUMOR! We all need some now and then.
I'm not saying that parts of Wyoming are way out in the middle of nothing. But there are parts of Wyoming where the only place a person can get a little privacy when nature calls, is in the privy.
Yes, Wyoming still has outhouses.
Yes, they are still used.
We will explore some of these old pooper places at another time. Maybe even try one or two out and give a critics review. But, until then, let's just have some fun with a few Wyoming outhouse jokes.
Let's start with a couple of jokes.
Then, I found a poem.
There was once a Wyoming boy who hated using the outhouse because it was hot in the summer and freezing in the winter…plus it stank.
So one day after a spring rain the creek was swollen so the little boy decided today was the day to push the outhouse into the creek. He got a long pole and started tipping. Finally, the outhouse tipped over into the water.
That night his dad told him they were going to the woodshed after supper. Knowing this meant a spanking, the little boy asked why. The dad replied, “Someone pushed the outhouse into the creek today. It was you, wasn’t it, son?”
He thought a moment and said, “Dad, I read in school today that George Washington chopped down a cherry tree and didn’t get into trouble because he told the truth.”
The dad replied, “Well, son, George Washington’s father wasn’t in that cherry tree.”
A woman living in Wyoming wanted to have an outhouse that wouldn’t stink. She advertised it in the local papers for a contractor that could build such a structure.
A contractor applied for the job and gave her a guarantee.
After completing the construction, the man got a frantic call from the woman, “You’d better get here fast! That outhouse has a terrible smell!”
He rushed over, went to the outhouse, poked his head through the door, and exclaimed,
“No wonder it stinks! You pooped in it!”
THE OUTHOUSE POEM
The service station trade was slow
The owner sat around,
With sharpened knife and cedar stick
Piled shavings on the ground.
No modern facilities had they,
The log across the rill
Led to a shack, marked His and Hers
That sat against the hill.
“Where is the ladies restroom, sir?”
The owner leaning back,
Said not a word but whittled on,
And nodded toward the shack.
With quickened step, she entered there
But only stayed a minute,
Until she screamed, just like a snake
Or spider might be in it.
With startled look and beet red face
She bounded through the door,
And headed quickly for the car
Just like three gals before.
She missed the foot log – jumped the stream
The owner gave a shout,
As her silk stockings, down at her knees
Caught on a sassafras sprout.
She tripped and fell – got up, and then
In obvious disgust,
Ran to the car, stepped on the gas,
And faded in the dust.
Of course we all desired to know
What made the gals all do
The things they did, and then we found
The whittling owner knew.
A speaking system he’d devised
To make the thing complete,
He tied a speaker on the wall
Beneath the toilet seat.
He’d wait until the gals got set
And then the devilish tike,
Would stop his whittling long enough,
To speak into the mike.
And as she sat, a voice below
Struck terror, fright and fear,
“Will you please use the other hole,
We’re painting under here!”