Farm Sayings Part II

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Farmers, ranchers and cowboys have plenty of colorful sayings. Admittedly some of them are a trifle obscene. Just for fun, I’ve collected a few (and cleaned up some of hubby’s favorites).

He could talk the legs off a chair.
He’s a three-jump cowboy.
He’s got more guts than you could hang on a 40-mile line fence.
He’s got no more chance than a June bug in the chicken coop.
He’s got plenty of notches on his gun.
He’s knee-high to a grasshopper.
He’s missing a few buttons off his shirt.
He’s overdrawn at the memory bank.
He’s riding a gravy train with biscuit wheels.
He’s so country he thinks a seven-course meal is a possum and a six-pack.
He’s so low he’d steal the widow’s ax.
He’s so low you couldn’t put a rug under him.
He’s so strong he makes Samson look like a wimp.
He’s such a liar he’d beat you senseless and tell God you fell off a horse.
He’s sucking hind teat.
He’s the only hell his mama ever raised.
Hell-bent for leather.
His breath’s so strong you could hang out the washing on it.
Hollering down a well.
Hot as a billy goat in a pepper patch.
Hot as a two-dollar pistol.
Hot as a two-dollar whore on the Fourth of July.
Hot as the hinges (or hubs) of hell.
Hot as a depot stove.
Hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk.
I ate so many armadillos when I was young, I still roll up into a ball when I hear a dog bark.
I feel lower than a gopher hole.
I feel so low I couldn’t jump off a dime.
I got my ox in a ditch.
I hear you clucking, but I can’t find your nest.
I need that like a tomcat needs a trousseau.
I was born tired and I’ve since suffered a relapse.
I’d like to buy him for what he’s worth and sell him for what he thinks he’ll bring.
If a duck had his brain, it would fly north for the winter.
If he was bacon, he wouldn’t even sizzle.
If he was melted down, he couldn’t be poured into a fight.
If I say a hen dips snuff, you can look under her wing for the can.
If that ain’t a fact, God’s a possum.
If you cut your own firewood, it’ll warm you twice.
If you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop diggin’.
If you get to thinkin’ you’re a person of some influence, try orderin’ somebody else’s dog around.
If you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.
If you must sing, do it when you’re after the cows. Cows don’t care if you can’t carry a tune.
I’ll be there with bells on.
I’ll knock you plumb into next week.
I’m so hungry I could eat a horse and chase the rider half-way home
I’m so sick I’d have to get better to die.
In the business of farming, it’s not so important who gets there first as who gets there at all.
Independent as a hog on ice.
It don’t take a very big person to carry a grudge.
It’s been dry so long, we only got a quarter-inch of rain during Noah’s Flood.
It’s better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.
It’s time to put out the fire and call in the dogs.
It’s time to heat up the bricks.
It’s time to put the chairs in the wagon.
It’s time to swap spit and hit the road.
Just because a chicken has wings don’t mean it can fly.
Just fell off the turnip (watermelon/tater) truck.
Keep skunks and bankers at a distance.
Keep your saddle oiled and your gun greased.
Let’s blow this pop stand.
Let’s chaw the rag.
Let’s hallelujah the county.
Let’s light a shuck.
Lettin’ the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier than puttin’ it back in.
Life is simpler when you plow around the stump.
Like arguing with a wooden Indian.
Like putting socks on a rooster.
Look down when walking in a cow pasture.
Look what the cat dragged in.
Looks like he was pulled through a knothole backwards.
Looks like she was rode hard and put away wet.
Looks like she’s been chewed up, spit out and stepped on.
Looks like ten miles of bad road.
Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.
Mean as a mama wasp.
Meanness don’t just happen overnight.
Might as well. Can’t dance, never could sing, and it’s too wet to plow.
Nervous as a fly in the glue pot.
Nervous as a pregnant jenny (jennies are female mules and they’re sterile).
Nervous as a whore in church, with the preacher a-hollering “Come, come, come to the Lord!”.
Nervous as a woodshed waiter.
No bigger than moles on a chigger.
No flies on my mama.
No grass growing under her feet.
Noisier than a cornhusk mattress.
Noisier than cats making kittens.
Noisy as a restless mule in a tin barn.
Noisy as two skeletons dancing on a tin roof.
Nothing between the horns and hooves but hide.
One wheel down and the axle dragging.
Panting like a lizard on a hot rock.
Pigs get fat; hogs get slaughtered.
Pitiful as a three-legged dog.
Poor as a lizard-eating cat.
Poor as sawmill rats.
Preaching to the choir.
Put on your sitting britches.
Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
Quick out of the chute.
Quit hollering down the rain.
Rough as a cob.
Running with the big dogs.
Scarce as grass around a hog trough.
Scarce as hen’s teeth.
Scrawny as Ace Reid cattle (Ace Reid is a cowboy cartoonist known for emaciated cows and horses).
She beats her own gums to death.
She could talk a coon right out of a tree.
She doesn’t have enough sense to spit downwind.
She has a bell clapper instead of a tongue.
She looks like chewed twine.
She looks like she was born downwind of the outhouse.
She makes a hornet look cuddly.
She raised hell and stuck a chunk under it.
She speaks ten words a second, with gusts to fifty.
She’s a right smart windmill-fixer.
She’d charge hell with a bucket of ice water.
She’s built like a brick outhouse.
She’s frying size.
She’s got tongue enough for ten rows of teeth.
She’s got too many cobwebs in the attic.
She’s in a horn-tossing mood.
She’s one brick shy of a load.
She’s one bubble off plumb.
She’s so contrary she floats up-stream.
She’s dancing in the hog trough.
She’s two sandwiches short of a picnic.
She’s warm in winter, shady in summer.
Sick as a dog passing peach pits.
Skin your own buffalo.
So bad at farming he couldn’t raise Cain.
So crooked he has to unscrew his britches at night.
So crooked that if he swallowed a nail, he’d spit up a corkscrew.
So dry I’m spitting cotton.
So dry my duck don’t know how to swim.
So dry the Baptists are sprinkling, the Methodists are spitting and the Catholics are giving rain checks.
So dry the birds are building their nests out of barbed wire.
So dry the catfish are carrying canteens.
So dry the trees are bribing the dogs.
So hot the hens are laying hard-boiled eggs.
So poor I had a tumbleweed as a pet.
So poor the wolf won’t even stop at their door.
So poor their Sunday supper is fried water.
So poor we had to fertilize the sills before we could raise the windows.
So sick he needs two beds.
So skinny she has to stand twice to make a shadow.
So skinny she shades herself under the clothesline.
So skinny you could give her a Big Red and use her as a thermometer.
So stupid if you put his brains in a bumblebee, it’d fly backwards.
So tight he squeaks when he walks.
So ugly his mama had to tie a pork chop around his neck so the dogs would play with him.
So ugly his mama takes him everywhere she goes so she doesn’t have to kiss him good-bye.
So ugly only his mama loves him—and she waits till payday.
Soft as a two-minute egg.
That about puts the rag on the bush.
That coffee’s so strong it’ll put hair on your chest.
The barn door’s open and the mule’s trying to run (your fly’s down.)
The biggest troublemaker you’ll probably ever have to deal with watches you from the mirror every mornin’.
The porch light’s on but no one’s home.
There are a lot of nooses hanging from his family tree.
There’s a big difference between the ox and the whiffletree.
There’s a light or two burned out on his string.
There’s more than one way to break a dog from sucking eggs.
There’s no slack in her rope.
There’s no tree but bears some fruit.
There’s only a strand of barbed wire between here and there, and it’s down (after a blizzard).
They hung the wrong horse thief.
They lived so far out in the country that the sun set between their house and town.
They tried to hang him but the rope broke.
Thin as a bat’s ear.
Thin as a gnat’s whisker.
Things are going to hell in a handbasket.
This ain’t my first rodeo.
This is hog-killing weather (hogs were once butchered only in cold weather so the meat would keep).
Throw your hat over the windmill.
Tight as a wet boot.
Tight enough to raise a blister.
Tired as a boomtown whore.
Too poor to paint, too proud to whitewash.
Tough as whang leather.
Ugly as a mud fence.
Ugly as homemade sin.
We’ll paint the town and the front porch.
We’ve howdied but we haven’t shook.
Were you born in a barn?
What did you do with the money your mama gave you for singing lessons?
When you wallow with pigs, expect to get dirty.
Whistle before you walk into a stranger’s camp.
Whistling down the wind.
Why close the barn door after the horses are out?
Why shear a pig?
Worthless as a sidesaddle on a sow.
Worthless as teats on a bull.
You can bet the farm on it.
You can’t get lard unless you boil the hog.
You were too hard to raise to take chances.
You’re so low you have to look up to see hell.
Your fences need to be horse-high, pig-tight and bull-strong.

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2 Responses to Farm Sayings Part II

  1. Mary E McNaught Zeman says:

    Yep! You did indeed do a bit of Bowdlerizing.

  2. Denny144 says:

    Awesome!

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