| Hey Mooj Heads! It's time once again for the Spring Moojathon. This year The Mooj hopes to add 500 - 600 new Mooj Heads to his roster of loyal minions. Are you among the fortunate 2,367 who can claim to be a certified Mooj Head? If not why not? The first 50 new Mooj Heads to sign up this spring will receive a free Mooj T-Shirt (pending final approval of the Select Committee). (Also pending whether or not I can actually come up with 50 free T-Shirts.) |
Written and Edited by Mujaputtia Umbababbaraba (Friend to All Humanity)
| The Mooj Weekly Standard is published semi-weekly by The Friends of Mooj Society, West Chester, PA. All material published in The Mooj Weekly Standard is the intellectual property of The Mooj and may not be reproduced in any manner, shape or form without the expressed written consent of The Mooj or one of his non-paid interns. The Mooj Weekly Standard actually sells for $1.50 an issue but hardly anyone seems to want to pay for it so I guess it's okay that you, too, like most deadbeats, download it for free. If you cannot pay The Mooj with cash then at least pay him with kindness. |
First Things First: Ahoy humble minions! To avoid causing anymore suffering to those of you who have waited long and hard for my newsletter (which is late again) I will skip my usual lengthy introduction and get right down to business. Before that, however, let me just say that what awaits you in this newsletter is good clean fun, including random samplings of Mooj Mail, a story about the strange and wondrous Randy Sn__k, a story about a very special Little League Mom, a poem about a budding spring romance and the final episode of our pathetic Sao Miguel treasure hunt story. Read on dear friends and then I recommend that you sit back and reflect upon the great wisdom that you gathered from this humble newsletter. I, too, shall sit back and reflect but it won't be about this newsletter; it will most likely be about finding food and shelter since I'm broke again. More about that later.
"The
Mooj Mailbag"
Well Mr. Ubababaraumdingidongdangdipptydododay, You call yourself the Poetic Punjab...I haven't seen much of your poetry lately. The "poems" you have listed under your selected Mooj poems page are sooooo old. Why haven't you written anything new lately? Lisa Lowb
What are you talking about? Mooj poetry
appears almost weekly in each newsletter. Yes, admittedly, the poetry
in the Mooj Poetry Archives is old but that's why it's referred to as a
"Poetry Archive." I suggest you reevaluate your confusion and try
again.
Hallo, je suis Estelle, a French girl from Amboise, I like the nudist camping and the last summer I was at a camp in Normandie. These are some photos I took of me with my girlfriends. I am in the photos wearing the blue hiking boots. I wish you will publish me. I seek American husband with lots of money. Thank you. Because the photos attached to this email contained
graphic nudity I omitted them for purposes of good taste. The Mooj
will acknowledge to all that Estelle and her French girlfriends are
exceptionally good looking (and very talented) but rules are rules and lewd material
is never permitted in The Mooj Weekly Standard. If you would
like to marry Estelle and you are a rich American, then send your email
address into Mooj headquarters and I'll pass it along to her. If
you're not a current member of The Mooj Matchmaking Service then
please include a sizable donation to speed things along.
Will the new business take off? G. McPherson Every once in a while The Mooj gets a genuine request for free psychic advice and is eternally grateful for the opportunity to help his fellow being (minion or not). The Mooj has gazed into the future and sees clearly that G. McPerson's new business shall take off. Good luck! Swamaji Mooj, I think I'm falling in love with a man I met on the Internet but I don’t want to hurt my husband and children. I am 78 and have been married for forty-eight years. We have six children and eighteen grandchildren, all of whom are fully-grown. For a long time my sex life has been dullsville since my husband has no imagination. I got to chatting with my new boyfriend on the net and he’s everything I always wanted in a lover because he’s real adventurous and willing to try things that my husband couldn’t even think about doing, mainly because he lost a leg during WWII. I can’t bear to go a day without hearing from my Internet lover, as he is now my only source of erotic stimulation. I really want to meet him but I don't know if I should since he lives so far away (in Egypt) and has several children of his own. Oh Mooj, what should I do? Gabbie “The Old Gray Goat” McGillis
What should you do??? How about adhering to the wedding vows you took nearly 50 years ago! Forget not that you married your husband for better or worse, including a less than thrilling sex life. As a courtesy to you (even though you don't deserve it) I checked into this mysterious Egyptian pen pal of yours using my advanced psychic Internet tracking abilities. This fellow "Halaih Ab Saleem," as he so calls himself, is actually a 39-year-old plumber from Norwood, Ohio. I suggest you end this foolish relationship at once! Hey bud, How come you don’t put the names of new minions in your newsletters anymore? I used to look forward to each newsletter because I loved seeing what kind of retards—er, sorry, I mean “gifted people” joined forces with you each week. Your New Minions section could be greatly improved if in addition to posting portions of each applicant's essay you made these people send in a picture of themselves. Rock On,
Oh yeah, like I'm sure Gunther Gueternoogen is your real name. Anyway Gunther (or whatever your name is) The Mooj hears you and has been wondering about this himself. Since the Yaksuba twins have gone along on their own merry way (they used to be my official non-paid interns) no one seems to be assigning Mooj minion numbers anymore. Fear not! Soon we'll correct this backlog and get new minion numbers issued to all who need them. Sending in a picture might not be such a bad idea either. The Mooj will remind you, however, that lewd or inappropriate material should never be sent. Dear Mudj, Help! I am married to a wonderful guy but a better one lives up the street. My neighbor (let's call him “Jim”) does a lot of yard work wearing only a pair of tight shorts and no shirt. His body is awesome! Anyway I have been admiring him from behind my curtains and my girlfriends say I’m crazy and I should stop spying on him. I’ve tried and tried and finally started praying to God to help me stop this obsession. In my prayers I asked God to send me a sign if I was meant to be with him. Well the other day while he was doing yard work his shorts split up the back and he wasn’t wearing any underwear! I thought I had died and gone to heaven! When my husband came home from work I told him I was leaving him and why. I ran up to Jim’s house with my suitcase and told him everything. I thought he’d be happy but he wasn’t and called the police. Now I have nowhere to go because my husband has changed all the locks and told me to stay away. What should I do? Carol Corning
In respect to all you Mooj minions out there who live and die by the Mooj Minion Creed (to love, honor and obey your husband or wife, etc.) I will refuse to acknowledge this letter. Dear Mooj, I have always been fascinated by the disappearance of the Hohokum Indians. I have been on many tours where the guides give very strange explanations as to why this tribe literally disappeared from the face of the Earth without a trace some 1,500 years ago. Some people think that they were taken away by space ships. During my last trip to the desert I sampled the DNA of several types of cacti. To my surprise the Saguaro Cactus I sampled contained human DNA strands. It is my belief that the Hohokums turned into Saguaro Cacti. I have contacted many Arizona state park officials with my results and have asked them to include my theory along with the others but they have thus far refused. I have even supported my claim with pictures of very human-like looking cacti but it has been to no avail. If you could help in anyway I would greatly appreciate it. Dr. Gilbert Ventura
I believe in your theory Dr. Gilbert. But then again I also believe that this dog from Oklahoma and I got abducted by a UFO and had ourselves probed by a semi-friendly alien. In reality, I suspect that the human DNA samples you found inside the cacti were probably deposited there by drunk ASU fraternity boys during one of Sigma Chi's infamous "do the desert" initiations. Dear Mooj, My son came home the other night totally wasted. I asked him if he had been smoking pot and he looked me in the eye and said, “No way mom, I've never smoked pot in my life.” A couple of days later I found a bag of pot in his room. After giving him a time out I asked him why he had lied to me and he said, “That’s not pot, that’s weed.” I’m really upset and embarrassed that my son is so stupid that he didn’t know that pot and weed are the same thing (not to mention the fact that he had some weed and didn’t share any of it with me). Oh Mooj what's a Baby Boomer mom like me to do? Any suggestions? Anonymous
Mooj, well i really care for my ex girlfriend Lacey still. Does she even care for me anymore? Danny McGill,
Mooj, Please don't publish this letter. Just keep it between you and me okay. I have no idea who the [omitted] you are but I promised the Predators that if they let me skate with the team next year I would reveal your true secret identity. Tell me who you are and I'll pay you. I'll even give you my prized autographed San Jose Shark's team warm-up jersey. For purposes of anonymity I will omit my real name and say only that I'm rather jolly. "amigo shrubber" The Mooj is confused by your offer. The Mooj has no secret identity. The Mooj is The Mooj. |
This week's light hearted story comes to us, once again, from our old ex navy pal Jules Vermilion of Odessa, TX. Normally, The Mooj would never allow a navy story by the same person to appear in back-to-back issues but this one was just too good to pass up.
Anyone serving aboard my ship (circa 1986) would undoubtedly have known who Randy Sn__k was. He was liked by everyone because he was kind and generous. Unlike most of the other old salts on the ship (who treated new guys like myself with utter disdain) Randy was a friend to all. Often during the wee hours of the night, while our ship steamed aimlessly about in the hot, lonesome, miserable Indian Ocean, Randy would sit with us new guys and tell us stories about his hometown in Iowa. Randy was a "short timer" by then and very near the end of his enlistment. Randy had saved enough money during his stint in the navy to buy himself a little house on the Mississippi River and a small bar and grill nearby to eke out a living. His dream was to settle down and get married and we were all very happy for him. Randy Sn__k was definitely what you would call a "down to earth" kind of guy. On the day of his discharge Randy passed out his address and told us all to look him up if we ever passing through his town in Iowa. A few years later someone actually was passing through Iowa and decided to stop and see him. When that person arrived at the given address he found Randy’s mom and dad there but no trace of Randy. Most disturbing of all was that Randy's parents had not seen or heard from Randy in years—in fact, they thought he was still in the navy! When the news of Randy's mysterious disappearance arrived back on the ship everyone became concerned and hardly anyone could carry on a conversation without asking: "Gee, what do you think happened to Randy Sn__k?” Years later my ship pulled into the Philippine Islands and some guys in my division [who knew Randy] decided to take a tour up to a remote jungle area known as Pujanjan Falls. On the way back to the ship the tour bus stopped to refuel in a remote, out of the way, place. These guys got off the bus to stretch their legs and saw Randy Sn__k squatting on the porch of a nearby hut dressed in a loin cloth. "Randy! Hey, Randy!” one of them yelled. When Randy saw them approaching he hopped up out of his crouch and ran like hell into the jungle, never to be seen or heard from again. Whatever happened to Randy Sn__k? I have no idea but at least I know where he was in 1988. |
This week's Inspirational story comes to us from Jeffrey Alexander in Chandler, AZ. I don't know about you but this story sure brought a tear to my eye!
It's springtime again and as usual my thoughts turn to baseball. I sure wish I was a kid again because this was my favorite time of year: school was almost over and Little League baseball was just about to begin. I remember only bits and pieces of those long ago Little League games but I remember vividly how my mom was at every single one of them, sitting behind the backstop wearing my team colors (with a huge button picture of me in my uniform with the saying, “That's My Boy,” written on it). My mom was the ultimate Little League mom because she could care less about who won or lost; she only wanted to see all the kids, including the really bad ones like me (who doomed to sit on the bench for 5/7 of the game) have fun. I will never forget the summer I played on Mr. Goodrich's team. We were the absolute worst team in the whole division and we lost every game. Both my mom and Billy Belcher's mom were the team mothers. They tried to make each player on the team feel special (even the kid who just struck out, swinging at a pitch that bounced three times before rolling over the plate). No one was ever too pathetic to lose their confidence. Mr. Goodrich tried his hardest to get all the kids into the game but his desire to win at least one game kept the better players in and the free-swinging bench warmers out. Mrs. Belcher and my mom never let him hear the end of it and they were always criticizing him about the way he managed the team. Finally, on the very last game of the season he decided to let them coach the team. Mrs. Belcher and my mom drew up the line-up card and started the most pathetic of the players. These guys, including myself, were so happy to actually start a game that we gave it the best effort possible. Kids who never caught anything in their lives made death defying, over the fence, catches. Ground balls, no matter how hard they were hit, were stopped dead in their tracks by hustling infielders throwing themselves on the ball. Even those pitiful Shaw brothers (who all three combined didn't have a hit that season) were whacking the ball up the middle, running with all their God given speed and sliding into home plate regardless of whether or not they had been tagged out somewhere along the way. I don't remember what the final score was or if we even won the game but I will always remember how hard we played and how proud we all felt afterwards. We were true champions! |
A Poem Written By Rosanopolis et Reneous in Lower San Francisco An Ode to a Budding Spring Romance Hello The first words you spoke to me Flowers
You
You
Me
I LOVE you Why you playing me like that?
|
With great sadness and anguish I begin this week’s narrative by telling all that that our treasure hunt on Sao Miguel has been unofficially terminated due to the recent bankruptcy of The Handjoy Syndicate (and just about every other business owned and/or operated by the Handjoy family). The Handjoy Syndicate wasted more than five million dollars on this fruitless endeavor and now they have absolutely nothing to show for it [other than some hefty fines levied against it by the EU for destroying wetlands and eliminating the natural habitat of some rare, endangered, sea bird]. Originally I thought that I would avoid mention of this sad and frustrating conclusion to what could have been the greatest treasure hunt of all; but then I realized that I owe it to my minions since so many of you (loyal or not) were there in spirit, digging beside us. Will others take our place in hopes of striking it rich? Perhaps, but they too shall leave this God-forsaken island as paupers (much like the Handjoys are doing now as we speak). In my humble opinion if the boy genius Trent Handjoy—who had millions of dollars at his disposal—couldn’t figure out how to get to the damn treasure then how could any other mortal—genius or not—do any better? Now that the Handjoy family fortune is gone Trent can no longer afford to return to Duke University; and what’s worse, he has no home to return to since all the Handjoy properties were sold to help keep the Handjoy Syndicate afloat. Thus, wisely, he has decided to remain with Lance and myself as we travel along onto our next great adventure (while his destitute father tries to find a way to get back to America). As all our equipment lies rotting in the fields near Malaga Cove I can only look back on these last few weeks with joy and satisfaction since I personally didn’t care whether or not we actually found the treasure. What was important to me was that I had a good time and met many wonderful people. As most of you know The Mooj has no desire for riches or fame, The Mooj only cares about helping others and sharing his love and spirituality with the world. The frustrating conclusion to this great treasure hunt will now follow this short introduction and then I might possibly make mention of how Lance and I failed to rescue our old pal Jeff W. from captivity. (That in itself is a sad story, which I might save for another time. I will say, however, that both Jeff and Lance are recovering fine from their gunshot wounds and both are expected to live.)
The Treasure Hunt on Sao Miguel, The Final Chapter
By early April it was apparent to members of the Handjoy Syndicate that there was no way to prevent the pit from flooding with seawater since whoever designed this pit from hell employed not one but several flood tunnels. Once the hydrostatic seals had been broken (namely those oak platforms that were coated with putty and coconut fiber) the water pressure from below became too great and the pit became saturated. Many of the flood tunnels were located and subsequently dynamited but the flow of seawater never ceased and the pit remained full. For lack of any thing better to do the Handjoy Syndicate finally hired an oil prospector to drill into the hole to see how deep the treasure actually was. The drill was mounted on a platform just above the waterline and slowly lowered into the hole. Trent’s uncle (a man named Ferris Baker Handjoy) directed the drilling operation since he had spent many years as an oil rig technician (or so he said). Each time the bit was pulled up Uncle Ferris examined the shaft carefully and then dried and sorted each scrap of material adhering to it.
On the
first day of drilling the bit struck the deepest known platform at eighty
feet and easily bored right through it. Chips found on the bit proved
to be spruce, five inches thick. Then the bit dropped another twelve
inches as if passing through an empty place, and chopped through four inches
of oak. At this point the drill operator hit a layer of loose material,
which he believed to be metal. (Previously when the bit was withdrawn,
chips of wood or other particles were found clinging to it. When
nothing was found on the bit he guessed it had been scoured off in a stratum
of gold coins.) Again the bit was lowered and raised into the pit
and then carefully inspected by Uncle Ferris. It was then that Trent
noticed his uncle remove something caught on the bit, examine it closely
and then slip it into his pocket. When Trent demanded to see
what was found Uncle Ferris refused, saying only that he would show it to us all at the shareholder’s meeting the following morning. That
night Uncle Ferris disappeared and was never seen again until a few days
later, when his fat, bloated corpse was discovered floating face down in
the pit. His pockets were empty and his mysterious clue was gone
forever.
After more probing with the drill the first layer of loose material was found to be twenty-two inches thick. Eight more inches of oak lay below; then another twenty-two inches of unknown substance and four more inches of oak. The drillers concluded that this indicated two oaken chests made of four-inch timbers, one on top of another. Just below the chests the bit struck six inches of spruce, as if they were resting on another platform, and below it more clay. The operators set the drill up a few feet to one side and began again. It hit the platform, dropped eighteen inches and commenced to wobble and jerk. It seemed to have struck the edge of something, cutting into wood on one side and nothing on the other. Splinters of wood were brought up on the drill such as might be chipped off barrel staves. By then the drill had been fully extended and a decision was made to bring in a longer drill.
Drilling was resumed a few days later, this time using a much longer and thicker pipe. At a hundred and twenty-six feet the bit struck oak and then iron. Twenty-seven feet deeper the drillers cut through a layer of what seemed to be stone. Some of this material was brought to the surface and examined by a team of analytical chemists. Their analysis proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the substance was artificial and had the same chemical properties as hardened cement. Obviously, the drill located a cement roof, walls and floor of a chamber. Its size was estimated to be five feet square and seven feet deep. Again as with the first drilling operation whenever the bit was removed from the ground anything adhering to it was carefully set aside. This debris was taken to a laboratory near the site, where it was placed in an open container and then covered with distilled water. The wood chips and lighter material would then float to the top. Idly, one of the chemists picked up a bit of flotsam from the surface and rolled it between his fingers. Examining it more closely, he placed the little ball on the table and unrolled it. This fragment was a torn piece of parchment, about a half-inch long and a quarter inch wide. On it were written with a quill pen the letters, “w” and “s.” Curiously, this parchment had also been treated with quick silver.
By now The Handjoy Syndicate was positive that they had found something worth billions and decided to go for broke getting it (and that’s just what they did—went broke). Then tragedy struck and the last of the Handjoy Syndicate money had to be used to pay off the local police department when several local workers were killed inside a makeshift 150-ft long pressurized steel caisson [which had been inserted into the pit]. To add insult to injury the pit and surroundings then collapsed into one giant abyss. Our treasure was gone forever. And so was most of Malaga Cove.
Penn Leary, Bradley Keyes, William Fuller, Dick Joltes and Stephen Dafoe. Until next week stay happy!
