VOLUME III, No. 38, October 5, 1999
(Free to A Good Home)
Written and Edited by Mujaputtia Umbababbaraba, Poetry Tsar   
First Things First.  The Mooj acknowledges up front that this particular newsletter is lacking in substance.  (But then again, really, aren't they all?)  Pressed by a tight schedule, the editorial board has decided to publish this issue "as is."  But, as far as newsletters go this one is still pretty good.  So, as we do every week, sit back and enjoy: 
The Mooj Mail Bag (A random Sampling of Last Week's Mail)  
  1. You were living in Memphis, TN at the time.
  2. On the night of the fire, August 18, 1977, Elvis had just died and dozens of witnesses recall seeing you at Graceland, practicing with the elite black belt entourage for Elvis' funeral.
  3. You never worked at the Ponsitron Roller Rink, and
  4. You never even lived in Boca Raton, FL.
Travels with Mooj  
Part IX: Two Moojs, Lance and a Dog Named Blue
 
Within a few days Lance I were as far from Texarkana as we could possibly get with a moped that could only travel 35 mph.  True to our escape plan we hid during the day and moved only at night.  We encountered very few people on the road because virtually no one is stupid enough to live in south eastern Oklahoma.  Our disguises worked great and the few people that we did come across didn’t seem to suspect a thing. (Or perhaps the people in south eastern Oklahoma we talked to weren’t bright enough to realize that there was something odd about an Amish guy wearing bib overalls and a guy in a full body cast painted black.)

Our good luck ran out when we hit Briartown, OK and our moped fell apart.  We had no choice but to abandon it in place and find another reliable means of transportation as soon as possible.  Even though we still had most of the money Mr. Fussie gave us, we thought it prudent to save that for an emergency and steal the first thing we could find to continue our journey to freedom.  We walked a few miles across the great wide-open Oklahoma plains and finally came upon the dark and muddy Canadian River.  A quick search of the beachhead found a small but sturdy canoe tied to a towhead; and so we stole that (including the dog that was sleeping inside of it).  Slowly the three of us paddled up stream trying to put distance between us and the scene of our latest crime (actually, only Lance was doing the paddling—I couldn’t because of my full body cast and our new dog friend couldn’t for obvious reasons).  When daylight began to appear over the eastern horizon we paddled to shore and found a nice place to hide in the tall grass alongside the river.  Exhausted, we slept the whole day and woke at sundown to continue our trip west up the tranquil river.  For days we existed like this, averaging about 15 miles per day.
 
One night we ended our daily sojourn early and Lance decided to sneak off to a town we saw illuminated far off in the distance.  Sunrise was about an hour away and we were starting to get low on supplies and dog biscuits.  It was a peaceful night so while Lance was away I lay comfortably in the tall grass, staring up at the stars.  My dog companion slept quietly by my side.  Then all of a sudden the dog jumped up and began to bark—a stranger was approaching.  I was helpless, unable to do anything but roll to my side while the dog barked frantically at the darkness.  I used my extra sensory preceptors to try and figure out who or what was approaching and I slowly began to sense that there was a lunatic headed my way—whoever it was was hacking his way through the tall grass with a ’52 Telecaster.

“Dear God in Heaven—it’s that J.J. Bigsby guy again and he’s going to kill me!” I shouted as I tried to roll away.  Within seconds a tall, naked, and emaciated figure stood before me.  I closed my eyes in peace for I thought that this was my last moment on Earth.

But the fake Mooj just stood there—crying.  He was crying tears of joy, for he had been lonesome and was finally happy to see someone—even if it was I, the man he wanted to murder.  When I slowly opened my eyes I saw before me a “different” J.J Bigsby.  This was not the same raving lunatic that had banished me from Mississippi.  This J.J. Bigsby had become ‘softened’ and peaceful.  It became obvious to me that having become “The Mooj” for two whole months had now somehow tempered his animal instincts and made him humble and holy, like I was.

After a few awkward moments of silence I asked Bigsby about the murder of Blind Lemon Washington and he told me that it was true that he killed Blind Lemon Washington—but that it was in self-defense.  He, like me, was now being unjustly hunted by the law.

According to Bigsby, he had been barrelhousing up and down the Sunflower River, when one day he was wandering home from an all night drunk.  He spotted a woman struggling to carry several bags of groceries into her house and offered her help.  She thanked him afterwards and offered him a tall glass of lemonade because it was a hot, muggy day.  Bigsby declined and bid the lady good day but before he could exit the house a long black Cadillac pulled up.

“Hide—or my husband will kill you!” screamed the panic stricken lady.  Bigsby ran with all his energy to the rear of the house and tried to jump out the bedroom window but Blind Lemon Washington—in a drunken rage—ran through the house with a loaded 44 and took several shots at Bigsby, yelling: “Whose naked ass I see trying to jump out of my window? I’ll teach you to mess with my wife!”

Bigsby had no choice but the bludgeon the jealous and drunk Blind Lemon Washington to death with his telecaster.  Bigsby then fled Mississippi with only his guitar and the clothes on his back (which, because he was naked, didn’t amount to much).  He’s been running ever since.

When Lance Worthy returned he was surprised to find two Moojs present.  I introduced him to my nemesis and we agreed to combine our escapes and proceed together up the river.  With Bigsby using his telecaster as a paddle and Lance using the oar, we were finally making decent progress rowing up the river.

My Two Cent's Worth by Lance Worthy, Esq.
I must make something perfectly clear—I am not, nor have I ever been, a gay porno star!  I have no idea why so many of you Mooj Heads are confused about this.  It is true that I spent many years working in the alternative lifestyle adult movie industry—but I was a stuntman not a porno star!  Never did I engage in any simulated or otherwise scripted act of lovemaking.  My role was purely a professional one, which required that I substitute myself for actors when action sequences required an element of danger.  Most of my stunt work involved car crashes and leaps from tall, burning buildings.  Because it was necessary to reduce film-editing costs, some directors did, however, insist that I be substituted into action scenes early (i.e., before the scripted act of lovemaking was terminated).  Some directors, in an effort to reduce editing altogether, insisted that I perform the entire “scene” with or without action sequences.  Sadly, many of my greatest stunts wound up on the cutting room floor.  In the future I hope that you will refrain from referring to me as a “gay porno star.”  I was a stuntman who performed stunts in alternative lifestyle adult movies.
Closing Thoughts 
Well, that's all folks.  I warned you above that there wasn't much to this week's newsletter.  Next week I'll try to spice things up a bit more.  Until we meet again I hope you and yours have a great week ahead.  Things should be a lot better for me now that I have Bigsby (a.k.a, the fake Mooj) with me.  His Special Forces and survival training will undoubtedly come in handy once we get into the mountains.


 

 

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