THE MOOJ WEEKLY STANDARD
VOLUME III, No. 33, September 1, 1999

Mooj,

I am a widower, aged 84.  I’m tired of one-night-stands and the swinging single’s scene.  I want to meet someone who is willing to commit to a relationship, not just want wild sex.  Are any of those prisoner pen pal friends of yours still available?

Grandma McMahon,
Del Rio, TX.

Wer ist diese Moojen? Warum ist mein Enkel kriminell, der herum mit dem hängt? Realer name meines Enkels ist die angemessene Lance Abner Stoltzfuss nicht.  Ich weiß nicht, wohin er erhielt die Namenslanze angemessen. Er war ein guter Junge bis ihn nach links Pennsylvania zum Gehen zu Hollywood, in den Filmen zu sein. Er kam als irgendeine Art kranker Pervert zurück! Abner ist ein guter Amish Junge. Ich mag nicht diese Person Moojen!

Mooj,

I respect your opinion.  Whatever you say goes, okay?  I was toying with the idea of getting a sex change operation.  All my life I have believed that I am a woman trapped inside the body of a man.  What do you think?  Should I go through with it?  Let me know ASAP because I want to get the operation done as soon as possible so that I don’t miss any of this upcoming season’s new Ally McBeal episodes.

Greg Broady,
Canon City, CO.

Warum dort Leute schreiben Sie dem Moojen solchen Unsinn? Was ist ein Moojen?  Ich vertraue nicht diesem Mann  Er scheint, ein Verbrecher zu sein. Er bildet Menge vom Geld weg von den.  Dummköpfen, die nicht stark arbeiten. Es klingt wie das Moojen ist ein Haken.

Mooj,

Whatever happened to the band Tears for Fears?  I used to love their song called Pale Shelter.  What exactly was Pale Shelter anyway?  My brothers used to tease me and tell me it had something to do with men having "relationships" with other men.  Also, remember that song called Safety Dance?  The guy singing that song used to sing something about being “totally remude.”  What did that mean?  My brothers told me it had to do with men having relationships with men, too.

Cindy Gordon Liddy
Santa Monica, CA

In Pennsylvania haben wir ein Wort für Leute wie das Moojen. Wir rufen sie faul an Bevölkeren Sie, das das Geld Moojen sollte benannt werden Idioten senden. Wir sind harte Arbeitsleute. Wir brauchen nicht, mit diesem Unsinn Moojen oben gemischt zu werden.

Mooj,

Poor George W. Bush, he can’t help it if he was born with a silver spoon in his nose.  Ha Ha Ha.

Fmr. Gov. Ann Richards
Austin, TX

Ich hoffe, daß Abner seine Lebensdauer zurück in Ordnung erhalten kann. Er ist ein guter Junge und er arbeitet stark. Wir sind bis zum harten Zeiten gekommen und sein Einkommen benötigen, das dieser Person Moojen hilft. Wir sind der Gott, der Leute fürchtet und lassen nicht faule Personen zu. Ich finde dieses Moojen sehr faul.

Great Impotent Mooj,

Who is Doug Redhand and why does he reference me (August 18 newsletter) as "his good friend"?  This whacko must have heard me on the radio as he passed through Halethorpe during one of his midnight runs and now assumes that I am his friend.  Since I am a citizen of Radio Free Halethorpe and a valued employee at WBAL I am offended that this jerk considers me to be his friend.  Both Halthorpe and WBAL are "drug free" zones, so I seriously doubt that Redhand has spent any time here, other than in jail.  Doug Redhand, if you are reading this letter, I hope that you suffocate in your own guano (after you fall in it on one of your "crop" induced hazes).  Now, for those of you who are not familiar with Radio Free Halthorpe or WBAL you can call me at 410-936-1212 or 410-844-1212 for detailed information about the area.

Signing off,
Tom U.
Radio Free Halthorpe
The Last Bastion of America
(Before the foreigners ruined it)

Dieses ist Unsinn. Ich lehne ab, mehr dumme Post von den Idioten zu beantworten!

Mooj,

I’ll never forget my first time.  It was in the back seat of a ’67 Chevy in the parking lot of a place called Burgundy’s near The University of Cincinnati.  I was alone.  It was pure bliss—tasty, creamy and ooooh soooo saucy.  After that I became addicted.  I now eat Skyline Chili every day.  In fact, I’m eating it right now!  When was the first time you tried Skyline Chili?

Lonny Grange.
Cincinnati, OH

Was sagt dieser Idiot? Er ist so dumm wie alle andere!

Mooj,

I hope this doesn’t make me sound selfish but my wife and I are pretty upset about something that happened to us last weekend.  Every month our church has a “mystery trip.”  People pay $50 each, show up at 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning and a bus is waiting in the parking lot to take everyone on a secret weekend getaway.  Past mystery trips have been to fun places like Atlantic City, Dutch Wonderland, Peddler’s Village in Bucks County and Ocean City.  It sounded like a lot of fun so my wife and I signed up for this month’s mystery trip.  The bus took us to a work camp in the Appalachians, where we were forced to help paint some old rickety-assed church for a bunch of hillbillies.  We were pretty pissed.   Shouldn’t we at least get our $50 back?

Midge and Stefan.
Fallston, MD.

Ein anderer Idiot hatte gesprochen. Solche Paviane der Klugheit sogar haben nicht!

 To Mr. "Mooj" Mujaputtia,

I am writing to you again to ask you to surrender.  Things have been extremely difficult for us here at the Eastern Operations Center due to the fact that 1) you’re still on the loose, 2) The Doug Redhand we captured in Alabama was a look-a-like, not the real thing, 3) That idiot J.J. Bigsby is causing all kinds of mayhem throughout Alabama and 4) Agent Merryweather, a.k.a. Special Agent Ziggy, has now joined forces with that infamous drug lord Doug Redhand.

We know that you are somewhere in northern Mississippi because we found the remains of the Yugo you stole and crashed into the Mississippi River.  (It was very clever of you to blowup and sink the car like that—the mark of a true criminal genius—but our forensic experts were able to find enough wreckage to piece together the VIN). We also have many contacts in the Mississippi delta region that say someone matching your description has been wandering up and down Highway 61, playing blues at assorted juke joints.  (Of course, we are having a hard time verifying the authenticity of some of these reports since many indicate that you were in two places at once.  It's almost as if you have a twin or something.)  We have several agents on the ground in that area but since none of them drink or like delta blues, they haven’t really spent much time looking for you.  I am personally flying to Memphis to set up an operations war room to assist in the manhunt.  Your time is just about up!

Since the Doug Redhand we captured wasn’t the real Doug Redhand I must rescind my offer of amnesty and accelerate efforts to recapture you.  I will, however, let stand my offer of friendship.  I still have that cup of hot cocoa waiting for you in my office (except now it’s at my office in Memphis, not Washington D.C.)  Even if you aren’t here to surrender I will gladly put aside a few hours of my time so that we can sit and talk.  I would like that, Mooj, I really would.  You may call me at any time using my special secret phone line [Dial 1-737-878-9900, wait for second beep and then punch in the number 743.  When asked for the secret password, say: “I have come to puff on the magic peace pipe.” The operator will then respond with: “Are you safely inside your wig-wam?” You then respond with: “I am presently beating my tom-tom.”  The operator should then put you directly through.]  Please call.  I can’t wait to hear from you.

J. Edgar Gayson
New Director of Eastern Operations
Federal Bureau of Investigations

Ein anderer fauler Idiot. Dieser Mann sollte an der Arbeit sein.

And then one night as I walked along a dark and dusty road I heard the unmistakable sound of a ’52 Telecaster played through a vintage Fender “black face” Super Reverb Amp.  Whoever this guitar player was, he had totally mastered my sound (the ax was plugged into the second input jack, the “bright switch” was “on,” the volume dial was at 10, the treble dial was at 10, the middle dial was at 7, the bass dial was at 7, the reverb dial was at 10, the speed dial was at 3, and the intensity dial was at 10.  Also, the bottom left 10-inch speaker had been punctured with a pencil).  This person was also playing one of my most famous songs!  I approached the dilapidated juke joint where this impostor was playing and peeked through a partially boarded up window.  There I saw with my very own eyes my exact double up on stage, naked as a jay bird, playing his guitar and doing a kung-fu dance at the same time!  I was horrified!  This charlatan J.J. Bigsby had not only stolen my identity, but he was playing and dancing better than I had ever done!  I decided then and there to confront this evil twin and walked up to the stage with my guitar in hand.  Those few lucky patrons sitting at the bar and lying drunk on the floor witnessed the best “blues showdown” to ever take place in the State of Mississippi!  The dueling Moojs “cut heads” that night—both agreeing that the winner would stay in Mississippi and the loser would forever abandon the delta.  I played better than I ever played that night but my best was no match for the fake Mooj.  After it was all over I handed the fake Mooj my trusty old ax (which he broke over his knee) and then I walked away with my head hung low.  The crowd booed and threw bottles at me as I left the juke joint in shame; I would never play the blues in Mississippi again.

I had no idea what to do next.  I had no money, no clothes, no guitar, no car—no nothing!  And worse, I was being driven out of Mississippi by some deranged lunatic clone of myself.  Before I had much time to ponder my desperate circumstances I was run over by a VW microbus.  (During my deep reflection I did not realize that I was standing in the middle of the road.)  The VW microbus was packed full of hippies and luckily they stopped to help me.  Among the van load of freaks was a former Mooj Entourage member who immediately recognized me and convinced the others that I was harmless and holy.  I was then lifted off the highway and carried aboard the VW microbus (then christened “The Mooj Freedom Bus No. 2”).  At first I was uncomfortable since I had several broken bones and was squashed between two dozen people.  But soon I didn’t care.  It was nice to be ‘on the road’ again and among devotees.

In a very short time the VW microbus pulled into Memphis, TN.  I had once promised myself that I would never set foot in Memphis again.  And now, 22 years later, I was there again.  I felt incredible sorrow—for my memories of Memphis were sad ones.  From July of 1975 to August 17, 1977 I had lived in Memphis and belonged to the prestigious Elvis Presley Kempo Karate Black Belt Bodyguard Legion.  If you are a long time subscriber to The Mooj Weekly Standard then surely you recall that I have written extensively about this wonderful time of my life in earlier newsletters.  Few people were as lucky as I was back then: not only was I one of Elvis Presley’s bodyguards, I was also part of his black belt entourage.  Everywhere The King went, I went.  Those were great times for The Mooj but, alas, they were short-lived.  When The King died part of me died too.  The saddest thing I ever had to do in my life was to hang up my black velvet karate uniform and turn in my “TCB” lightning bolt necklace.  (I got to keep all my rings, though.)

So there I was: back in Memphis.  Would I return to visit Graceland again?  Maybe.  But first my new hippie friends need to take me to the hospital so I can get all my broken bones reset.

There was this young lass from Madras,
Who had a most remarkable ass,
It wasn't round and pink,
As some of you might think,
But was gray, had long ears, and ate grass.
 

There was this belle from Bangalore,
They thought she was smart when she was four,
When she was of age,
She went to Maharani's college,
And no one thought she was smart anymore.