I was once thinking about participating in a real estate deal in the mountains of far western North Carolina. The agent's name was Gribble, which I loved. On the way to the property you'd pass all these ramshackle houses and trailers all with scores and scores of plastic milk containers strewn about the yard. I thought, Damn, these people are serious about their calcium intake. Turns out the jugs are somehow useful in the making of methamphetamines. Anyway, one day I optimistically referred to the houses as "local color." Gribble looked at me quizzically for a moment and said, Aint no color there - them's all white folks.
Another time he referred to the seller of some item or another as "higher'n balls on a giraffe." That saying makes sense, of course, but since that time I've enjoyed making up similar sorts of comparisons that do not make any sense.
I realize that my explanation must take most of the romance out of the wet pig, and for that I apologize.
Other mis-sayings that I enjoy:
Six of one, half a dozen or the other.
A horse of a different feather.
