Common as cornbread, old as dirt, funny as all get-out—homespun expressions link modern Texans to their rural and agricultural past, conveying the spirit and plainspoken humor of their heroes and pioneers. Some sayings are instantly familiar because their parents or grandparents quoted them; others parallel the indisputable wisdom of biblical proverbs or Poor Richard’s Almanac, plenty will just you make you laugh. This collection will display a collection of sayings as big as all hell and half of Texas. Put on your hat and let’s go!
It’s better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.
That’s close enough for government work.
Might as well. Can’t dance, never could sing, and it’s too wet to plow.
I could sit still for that.
You can’t beat that with a stick.
He can strut sitting down.
He’s all hat and no cattle.
She’s all gurgle and no guts.
He chamber-of-commerced it.
He’s on a first-name basis with the bottom of the deck.
So crooked that if he swallowed a nail he’d spit up a corkscrew.
So crooked you can’t tell from his tracks if he’s coming or going.
He knows more ways to take your money than a roomful of lawyers.
Crooked as a dog’s hind leg.
Crooked as the Brazos.
Slicker than a slop jar.
More twists than a pretzel factory.
Crooked as a barrel of fish hooks.
So crooked he has to unscrew his britches at night.
She’s more slippery than a pocketful of pudding.
He’s slicker than a boiled onion.
I wouldn’t trust him any farther than I can throw him.
If that ain’t a fact, God’s a possum.
You can take that to the bank.
You can hang your hat on it.
You can bet the farm on it.
He’s so honest you could shoot craps with him over the phone.
If I say a hen dips snuff, you can look under her wing for the can.
Brave as the first man who ate an oyster.
Brave as a bigamist.
Brave enough to eat in a boomtown cafe.
He’s got more guts than you could hang on a fence.
He’d shoot craps with the devil himself.
She’d charge hell with a bucket of ice water.
She could start a fight in an empty house.
He’d argue with a wooden Indian.
She raised hell and stuck a chunk under it.
He’s the only hell his mama ever raised.
He’s got his tail up.
She’s in a horn-tossing mood.
She’s so contrary she floats up-stream.
She’s dancing in the hog trough.
He’ll tell you how the cow ate the cabbage.
He stays in the shadow of his mama’s apron.
If he was melted down, he couldn’t be poured into a fight.
He’s first cousin to Moses Rose.
He wouldn’t bite a biscuit.
He’s yellow as mustard but without the bite.
He may not be a chicken, but he has his henhouse ways.
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 dry my duck don’t know how to swim.
It’s been dry so long, we only got a quarter-inch of rain during Noah’s Flood.
So dry I’m spitting cotton.
Dry as a powder house.
Dry as the heart of a haystack.
Drier than a popcorn fart.