A Quote by Jeff Foxworthy

You might be a redneck if your momma calls you over to help, cause she has a flat tire on her house. — © Jeff Foxworthy
You might be a redneck if your momma calls you over to help, cause she has a flat tire on her house.
You might be a redneck if your momma tore her best dress coon hunting.
You might be a redneck if the dog catcher calls for a backup unit when he visits your house.
You might be a redneck if your momma gives you tips on how to sneak booze into sporting events.
You might be a redneck if your Momma would rather go the racetrack than the Kennedy Center.
You might be a redneck if the richest member of your family bought a house and you have to help take the wheels off of it.
Left to themselves, things tend to go from bad to worse. Murphy's First Corollary If you tell the boss you were late for work because you had a flat tire, the next morning you will have a flat tire.
Kessa ran her fingers over her stomach. Flat. But was it flat enough? Not quite. She still had some way to go. Just to be safe, she told herself. Still, it was nice the way her pelvic bones rose like sharp hills on either side of her stomach. I love bones. Bones are beautiful.
She takes off your drawers and works you over, she calls you Twinkles and you call her Rover.
Nobody calls me a racist when I do redneck jokes. Jeff Foxworthy can do as many 'You might be a redneck jokes' as he wants, but I'm telling you as soon as a guy like that does a black joke or something - 'How dare you!' I totally think it's unfair.
I get goose-bumps when you talk about Diane Wilson. Who knows where she found that courage? When she was a child, she would crawl under the bed when a stranger came to the house. But in 1989, she found out that her county in south Texas was ranked worst in the country for toxic waste. She wondered if the effluent, dumped into the waters where she and her family had shrimped for generations, might be responsible for the dwindling fish populations. And she suspected that her son's autism might be related to the pollution.
She wrote poetry constantly; that was her "work". She was a slow bleeder and she slaved over it for long, exhausting hours, and many a middle of a night I could hear her creaking around the dead house with a pen in one hand, a clipboard and a flashlight in the other, refining her poems, jotting down the lines of a conceit. Writing never came easy for her; it gave her calluses. She never courted the muses, she wrestled them, mauled them all over the house and came up, after weeks of peripatetic labor, with a slim Spencerian sonnet, fourteen lines of imagistic jabberwocky.
You might be a redneck if your house doesn't have curtains, but your truck does.
Momma tried to raise me better, but her pleading I denied, and that leaves only me to blame, cause Momma tried.
I was beating Amanda Lim to death with the tire iron, I accidently hit her in the finger. It was a fake tire iron, but it was run through with metal in the middle and when she looked up after the take, she was crying and it really hurt her and so I felt pretty terrible about that, but they got back at me when I had my big fight with Casey at the end and she just beat the bejesus out of me, being the amazing stuntwoman that she is.
She was nervous about the future; it made her indelicate. She was one of the most unimportantly wicked women of her time --because she could not let her time alone, and yet could never be a part of it. She wanted to be the reason for everything and so was the cause of nothing. She had the fluency of tongue and action meted out by divine providence to those who cannot think for themselves. She was the master of the over-sweet phrase, the over-tight embrace.
You might be a redneck if every electrical outlet in your house is a fire hazard.
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