This is my pondering great things, philosophical pose.

Out here close to and around the trailer park, we got lots of churches you can go to.

You got your Pentecostals, Assembly of God (Pentecostals that let their women doll-up), Church of Christ, a few Methodists to keep ’em honest, and one or two Catholic churches.

We also have a boat-load of Babdist churches. Now, this is confusing because Babdists spell their name just like the Baptists do.  Kinda like how we say Arkansas like we do instead of  how the heathens in Kansas say it.

(Ok, just a little note for you Kansas people.  You can say Arkansas anyway you want in your state, but saying ‘AR-Kansas’ here is grounds for you to get the bejabbers beat right out of you. I ain’t trying to threaten, I am trying to help.)

Ok, back to spiritual matters.

Like I was saying, Babdists spell their name B-A-P-T-I-S-T, and Baptists spell their name B-A-P-T-I-S-T.

Theologically, both Babdists and Baptists agree on on the big stuff. They both dunk instead of sprinkle and they both have a piano. It’s like state law that Babdist and Baptist both have to have a piano.  Rich Babdists and all Baptist places have pianos AND an organ. (I have suspected for a while now that Church of Christ folks started out as really poor, hardshell Freewill Babdists who couldn’t afford a piano)

Here is a list of some of the differences between Babdists and Baptists:

Baptists have full time pastors that are at the church all week long.  They also have full time song leaders and full time youth pastors.
Babdists have a preacher that works during the week at a full time job and preaches on Wednesdays and Sundays.  The song leader is the best singer in the church who also has a wife that can play piano. The kids sit in the main service with their parents.

Baptist youth leaders spend the whole year planning weekly events and activities for the youth in the church. They have activities in the family life center.
Babdist churches send their kids off to church camp once a year and play games in the church parking lot.

Babdists have two official alter call songs. They are “Just As I Am” and “I Surrender All” and they sing one of those songs each week. No exceptions.
Baptists might go a half year without doing those songs.  Skipping doing those songs  for a month in a Babdist church will get the song leader fired at the next Wednesday night business meeting.

Babdists don’t sing anything that ain’t in the hymnal. The youth sing contemporary stuff on Wednesday nights.
Baptists  have a full time minister of music who will lead the congregation in some choruses.

Babdists still have the potluck every month.  The best food ever is at a Babdist potluck.  Once again, I bet state law dictates that fried chicken will be served at a Babdist potluck.
Baptists don’t do potlucks much anymore.

Both Baptists and Babdists do not ever wave to each other in the liquor store.

For the most part, Baptist churches are in the city and Babdist churches are in the country but you can’t tell for sure until you go inside.  If most people are showing up in pick-up trucks you are most likely among Babdists.  If you see a bunch of SUV’s and minivans in the parking lot, you are probably among Baptists.

Of course the easiest way tell is to ask the people coming out the door which they are.  They’ll tell you.

Warning. This here blog will have opinions that could split friends and families.  And if you disagree with me, I really don’t give a fat baby’s elbow. But, you have every right to your own opinion. No matter how misguided and wrong you may be.

We got this lady in the trailer park named Mrs. Noodleman. She is better known as the “Crazy Cat Lady” and she always smells like old litterbox and catfood. Her husband left a long time ago. Probably got tired of cat poop in his loafers.

This woman has got no less than about 15  22 stinkin’, bawlin’, poop in the neighbor’s flower beds and walk on my freshly waxed car, cats.

Let me go ahead and state that I don’t particularly have anything against cats. But, in my opinion if a cat ain’t catchin’ mice or rats, there ain’t no reason to have one.

All Crazy Cat Lady’s cats do is make lots of noises when I am trying to sleep and make new cats to make more noise.  Did I mention she don’t get any of them fixed?  And once you go beyond 3 cats, you should be considered a rancher.

I am a dog type of person.  That is why my coon dog Scooter is my bestest friend.

I realize that many of you folks have cats, and that’s fine. Good for you.  But they are plotting your death. You need to know that.

“But, Mr. Mephistopheles loves me”  No. He don’t. You’re his food source and mobile back scratcher. He tolerates you while plotting. Always plotting.

Here are my 11 reasons that Dogs beat the heck out of cats:

1. Ever see a movie or a television show about a brave cat saving a boy in a well? I think not.
2. Dogs look much better at the end of a leash.  Here is a perfect reason to NEVER put a cat on a leash: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ubQxtEukvw
3. Dogs will let you give them a bath without taking out a contract on your life.
4. Dogs will bark to wake you up if the trailer is on fire. Cats will quietly sneak out the back door and giggle while they do it.
5. You can train a dog to fetch you a beer. Cats might bring you a dead mouse and then they will leave it in your shoe.
6. Dogs scratch themselves…cats scratch other people.
7. Dogs will sit on the car seat next to you. Cats have to have their own private box. Most cats in a moving vehicle are like furry, clawed, tornadoes.
8. Dogs will greet you & lick your face when you come home from work. Cats leave you a hairball behind the couch.
9. If Dogs don’t like you, they let you know early on…cats wait till your within striking distance.
10. Dogs will tilt their heads and listen whenever you talk. Cats will yawn and close their eyes.
11. Dogs will give you unconditional love forever. Cats will make you pay for every mistake you’ve ever made since the day you were born.

And if any of you cat people are really PO’d at me, just take minute and realize that deep down…. I really don’t care.

Send marriage proposals and redneck pictures to epjenkins@gmail.com. But any ticked off cat folks out there can send your emails with death threats and insults to josh.duggar@ohcrapireallyscrewed.up

Oh and howdy to Jenna who sent an email said she likes to read this blog each week at work and share with friends.  Hope your boss don’t catch you.

Later folks

Elwood

Lute Fenwick’s Ex.

There are ugly women out there and they need to be told they are ugly.

I know that is not exactly something that is popular to say these days when you are supposed to think about people’s feelings and all, but I can’t be silent any more.

I get in trouble for telling the truth sometimes.  I once pointed out that a woman was ugly in a group of folks, and some ugly woman got mad and called me a “Massage-O-Nist”.  It was kind of weird that she tried to insult me by saying I am a masseur (that’s Frenchy talk for guy that massages folks).  I told her that I have been known to give a good back-rub, but I am not any sort of specialist or anything. I thanked her and she looked confused, or maybe she always looked like that. I dunno, it was hard to tell because she was ugly.

You may be saying, “But Elwood, external beauty is only skin deep.”  That is very true, and ugly goes to the bone.  If you ain’t even got a skin’s worth of beauty, you might need to work on your social skills or learn to cook really good.

You ever been out with your buddies and see an ugly women who acts like she is pretty?  She’ll toss that hair like she’s in a shampoo commercial and strut around like she just won the local beauty pageant. It’s heartbreaking really.

I blame the ugly women’s friends.

All you ugly gals, I have been watching how your friends treat you. Your friends are lying to you.  They tell you, “Oh , darlin’ you are so cute! I would just kill for your eyes!”  They might kill for your eyes, but they wouldn’t touch your face with someone else’s hand.  Or they might say, “You have such a great personality, and someday the right man is going to see you and carry you away.” What they mean is “It’s a good thing you’re nice, maybe some blind guy is going to come along someday, and let’s hope he has a strong back.”

You ugly woman, might be asking yourself, “Why would my friends lie to me?” Because you make your friends look good. You might not want a bologna sandwich, but put some dirt on cracker next to it, and that bologna sandwich looks pretty good. You take an average looking chick and pair her up with an ugly friend, and that average chick looks a whole lost closer to Kate Upton than before.

There are levels of looks. In almost any group of women going out on the town you will have the following levels of looks, plus or minus a few degrees:

1. Good lookin’ – the really pretty ones that never want to dance or give you a working phone number
2. Kinda cute – Okay after a few beers or it is close to closing time and the Good lookin’ ones turned you down.
3. Ugly – A gorilla in a halter top is asking me to dance

It’s the good lookin’ women who set all this up.  Blame them. I’m just breaking the bad news. Ugly women, your friends are using you.

I realize I am opening myself up to all you pretty and cute girls getting mad at me for spilling the beans. Tough, you should have danced with me when I asked.

And no, it ain’t the same for ugly men. Ugly men have it better. Even a really ugly man can land at least an average woman.

I know, it ain’t fair ladies. If I was y’all, I would be mad at Christie Brinkley for starting all this when she married Billy Joel.

Or for you youngsters out there who don’t know who Billy Joel is, blame Katy Perry and Travis McCoy.

Yes, this really happened. Either she lost a bet, or he signed his soul away to the devil.

So ugly women, take heart. Somewhere out there is a guy who might be willing to lower his standards, or just flat chunk ’em out the window. I hear Lute Fenwick is looking again.

Dear Ronda Rousey,

You and me need to get married.

I have been looking for a woman who can kick butt like you for a long, long time.  Truth is, some of my ex-wives are kind of scary, but none of them are as scary as you are.  And if you can knock out a crazy Brazillian chick in under a minute, Louise Carpwaller ain’t got a snowball’s chance in Rio against you.

Some of my qualifications for being a husband are listed here, but I added some to the list just for you:

• You like to fight, so I will take you down to Bubba’s on a Saturday night and you can fight all you want. I can be your promoter for almost free. Louse Carpwaller hangs out there and I heard her talking smack about you. I ain’t kidding.
• I like long walks on the beach and opening cans of whoop-butt.
• I am contented to stay in the background and not hog all the glory for only 20% of your gross earnings.
• When it’s dark and you are drunk and if you squint a little, I look like Bradley Cooper.
• I think Floyd Mayweather is a chump too.  Don’t tell him I said that.

You can shoot me an e-mail or hit me up on Twitter darlin’.

Your next husband,

Elwood Peterbilt Jenkins

Me, Bobby Martinez, and Lute Fenwick were all sitting in Bubba’s the other night arguing about who would win in a race: The Flash or Speedy Gonzales.

I say The Flash would win because he has a longer stride. I mean, it’s just common sense.

Then the topic turned to more pressing matters.  It was time to see if we were gonna be in the local charity golf tournament again.

The tournament is gonna be at Bert’s Golf Course and Salvage Yard out on County Road 46.

Bert has the only full size golf course/salvage yard in the whole USA.  You can shoot 18 holes and get a transmission for a ’75 Pontiac Gran Prix all at the same place.

My favorite hole at Bert’s Golf Course and Salvage Yard is number 4. It is a par 5 that has a water hazard/stock/catfish pond to clear then dog-legs to the right. Once you get around the dog-leg, you have to shoot it over a big pile of Jeep parts to get to the green. Let’s see Tiger Woods get par on that one.

Plus, Bert keeps a herd of Angus cattle out on the course, so there are other hazards as well. Don’t wear any fancy golf shoes on Bert’s course.

Anyhow, the tournament is the annual Scramble For Unwed Mothers.  We have a tee shirt made up for the event.  It says:

“2015 Scramble For Unwed Mothers: Let’s All Help The Moms & The Little ***Word Censored By The High-Sheriff’s Of Content***”.

Lute came up with this years slogan. I tell you man, it will bring a tear to your eye.

Anyhow, while we were talking about the golf tournament, Bobby started shaking and crying.

Man, we had forgot about Bobby’s nightmare experience while golfing with his wife a few years ago.  It was so terrible, that Bobby can’t even look at a golf ball without going into the fetal position and wetting his pants half the time.  It is a dang shame too, because Bobby was one heck of a golfer back in the day.

Heck, the incident put Bobby in the hospital for a week.  He came in all beat up with a concussion, all bruised up, and a 5-iron wrapped around his neck.

What happened was, Bobby took his wife Roweena out to golf at Bert’s.

Roweena had never been golfing before, so Bobby was teaching her all about the game.  He even put Roweena’s initials on her golf ball.

This is how Bobby told it to us later:

“Well, I was having a round of golf with my wife over at Bert’s, when at that real hard number 4 hole, we both sliced our balls into a herd of Angus cattle.

We went to look for them golf balls and while I was looking around, I noticed one of the cows had something white stuck in its rear-end.”

“I walked over, lifted its tail, and sure enough, there was a golf ball with my wife’s initials on it stuck right in the cow’s backside.”

“I was still holding the cow’s tail up when I yelled to Roweena, ‘Hey, this looks like yours!'”

“I don’t remember much after that…”

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Send your marriage proposals, funny photos, questions or just to say howdy by sending an e-mail to elwood@elwoodjenkins.com
Don’t forget you can find me on Twitter HERE and on the Facebook HERE.

EPJ

You know what me and ol’ Ernie Hemmingway have in common?  Besides drinking?  We both spent sometime in Key West.

Ernest moved there to fish, drink, write and raise six-toed cats. I moved there to  lead the Duval Pub Crawl a few years back.  So I moved there to drink too.  The similarities with me and EH are staggering.

All my buddies and a couple of ex-wives was wondering why I came back. The long and short of it is, I got run out of town after a few weeks by a woman named Louise Carpwaller.

She was my girlfriend for a few weeks. The problem is Louise was a fourth level bunny boiler.

Louise was crazier than a rat in a coffee can.  The dangerous kind of crazy that hides until you least expect it.  For instance, we were at the grocery store in the meat section this one time.  I was minding my own business, checking out the price of the pigs feet when all the sudden a frozen chicken comes flying out of nowhere and knocks me upside the noggin.

I looked at Louise and yelled, “What the heck was that for?”   She claims it was because I was staring at the woman who works in produce.  Well, hells bells, the woman in produce looks just like Ernest Borgnine with long blonde hair! Everyone was staring.

She was just too jealous.  One time, I was leading the Saturday night pub crawl when a couple of recently divorced school teachers from Washington state got a little crazy and showed everyone their Walla Wallas.

And yes, I looked.  It is my job as a local source of information to the tourists.  Someone might want to know details.  It was my duty.  They wasn’t even that great.  One looked like a fried egg on a nail and the other was pointing due west.  And that was just ONE of the women!  The other woman was kind of disgusting.

Well, what I didn’t know is that Louise is in Margaritaville having about 1 or 7 Landsharks  and watching me doing my research out on the sidewalk.  El Psycho grabs a steak knife and chases me up and down Duval  trying to perform the procedure now known as “The Bobbitt” on me.

I dove head first into the Love Turtle (My 1981 AMC Pacer) and floored it all the way back to Arkansas.

Danged allergies anyhow.

When I was a kid, Spring and Summer was my favorite time of the year.  The birds was a cheepin’, the flowers were a bloomin’, and of course the girls wore those shorty shorts.

But since about the time I hit high school, I started getting real allergic every Spring.  About the time that yeller junk starts to collecting on every dang thing outside I start getting itchy eyes, itchy throat and itchy ears.  Then I start sneezin’ every two minutes and my nose starts running like a water hose.

It ain’t fun.

I tried a home-remedy that Luke Fenwick suggested that included four types of antihistamine, Nyquil and a horse tranquillizer mixed with a fifth of tequila and some sort of brown powder.

Sure, It stopped the allergies but I spent 3-days freaked-out thinking that John Stamos was trying to crawl out my bellybutton and afraid to come out of the bathtub because of the purple alligators that had the head of Bea Arthur.  Shoot, I probably won’t ever do that again.

You think I would learn about Fenwick’s stupid home remedies. One time he had one he guaranteed would work.  It was a diet plan that included a tapeworm and drinking a gallon of pure, undiluted Mexican river water everyday.  It is best not to make plans for a week or so if you do this diet. Sure you’ll lose weight, but if you sneeze at the wrong time, you’ll mess your socks.

Home remedies are something I have had pushed on me since I was a lil’ Elwood.

Whenever we got a bad chest cough, grandma had a tonic made with whiskey, honey and lemon juice.  I don’t know if it helped the cough, but you sure didn’t care as much that you was sick after sucking down a half bottle of that concoction.

Mustard packs would sure open up your sinuses and keep people that didn’t love you far away.
I guess I will keep sufferin’ and taking the allergy pills from the store when it gets real bad.

Of course, the fish are bitin’, so I think I can find the silver lining here.

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You folks can e-mail me at epjenkins@gmail.com.  Send some pictures of funny stuff or just questions about life in general.

Later

EPJ