you're as skeert as a common rooster what needs a serious pluckin' fer wakin' everybody up at the cracka dawn...
And YOU are green eyed with jealousy....
why you... you... cig-smokin' conie!
That'll be "coney"......
(smirks evilly)
God dern them chicken pluckin, pea pickin, pickle packin perverts anywho!
I recovered with all those smelly salts...
I always failed with insults but I'l gonna try this one
- Tell me -- were you born such a retarded shithead or were you originally a slug who managed to rise to such prominence?
Not bad, Francis, but no profanity allowed . . . in 1950's America, the old timers in the western programs had to swear and cuss like the dickens, but to meet family programming standards, they could not actually use profane words . . . so . . .
Get the picture, you hornswogglin' galloot ?
Hey Setanta, if you want to think my butt is skinny, you just go right ahead, you sweet smellin', sidewindin' ol' skinflint. Yer not gonna fool this ol cowgirl none. Whiskey snortin' cross-eyed ol' cussed curmudgeon.
So where are the aussies? Aren't they able to stand upright in this here part of the globe? Come on and shoot straight and play fair, yessiree, an we'll make sure yer treated with down home hospitality. Yup, we sure wil....
He's so fer'n he wudn't unnerstand - all us so fer'n to each other's pile o'dirt we kin hardly hawk up a howdydoo when the sun shines, Nellie.
Hey all you little buckaroo's, do you think Francis needs private lessons? I sorta do. We could take him out to the barn and give him what he needs to be a crack shot and a whiskey swillin' cowboy----and have fun doin' it, yes, oh my, we will have fun doin' it...
An he cud give us lessins on comportment, doncha think? How to eat swill stuff on thin plates..
(I'm losing it, it's hard to insult Francis)
Lower than a snake's belly and riper than a three-day dead polecat in the god-sent Texas sunshine.
Sinister seditionists of sickening smut. How dare you?
Huh?
Them's strange words yer usin' there, pardner. Ya need ta loosen up 'n' talk lak a reg-you-lar cowboy 'round these parts, donchaknow. Iffen ya don't, folks'll think yer some kinda city slicker. An' we cain't stand them kind. Pussyfooted, lily-livered polecats, ever' one of 'em.
Ah'm a sity slikker and proude of it, what you got agin us, you flamehaired glamurpuss!
Someone not a hundred miles away is a soiled dove restoring her feathers in a cow flop.
Waaal now, it took me some time to wash all that there cow flop off mah feathers, so watch where yer flingin' that stuff, willya?
I'ma goin' out ter the barn ta practice with this here thing (shoots pistol in the air). Jest in case any more deadbeat, smooth talking, vittle stealing, pomade wearin' varmits come around heer agin.
Oh! An I'll slop a few a them hogs while I'm out thar.
