My Danish grand father(central Wyoming c.1928) was excused from the dinner table by my grandmom when he described a local business man as "tighter than a fart in a pair of leather pants"
That’s pretty good.
My Danish grandpa was such a figure of rectitude that I’m not sure he ever did fart, let alone say the word.
But he had a style to him. Loved to suit up for weddings and such. And when his little town celebrated its diamond anniversary he entered the beard contest and grew a little strip beard, which came out blonde—this is when he was in his 80s, for pete’s sake.
The morning of the big parade in town we were all lined up with our antique cars and such (I was driving a ‘27 Essix Super Six) and here came grandpa up the line, carrying a little trophy—he had won first prize in the irregular beard category.
I got out to look at the trophy, then teased him, “You’re just lucky I didn’t enter.”
He puffed up like a little peacock and leaned right in my face. “You ain’t got the juice,” he said.