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Before we begin I would like to make mention of something that has been brought to my attention.  It seems that a few of my minions have been auctioning off their low Mooj Minion Numbers on the Internet!  Mooj bylaws state that Mooj Minion Numbers are transferable; but, this was intended solely for the purpose of keeping coveted low minion numbers within the Umbababbaraba family.  Mooj Minion Numbers 101 through 499 were set aside for the exclusive use of my parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, etal.  According to one of my non-paid interns Mooj Minion #112 was sold last week on ebay for $500!  I looked up that number in my ever-expanding minion roster and found that it was originally assigned to my cousin Bharatma Gupta.  Well Bharatma, as far as The Mooj is concerned you're S.O.L. if you want another minion number!  Mooj Minion # 227 (which was originally assigned to my first wife Bjorn Umbababbaraba) was also auctioned off last week.  It breaks The Mooj's heart when minion numbers are treated so indifferently.  (In case you were wondering, Mooj Minion #s 2 - 100 are reserved only for my children.)    

Mooj:

I totally dig your newsletter!  I’d register as a Mooj Head except that my mom might find out.  She’s almost 88 years old and really strict.  I can’t wait for her to kick the bucket so that I could have the whole house to myself.

Teddy Rickover
Ball Camp, TN

No problem Teddy, The Mooj understands.  (Actually I don't.) 

Mooj,

I'm totally in love with my boss.  His name is Mr. Franco and he's gorgeous.  He's so good looking that I get heart palpitations whenever he's near me.  What can I do to get him to fall in love me?  Oh Mooj, you have no idea how important this is to me.  I actually broke up with my most recent fiancée because I just couldn't be happy with anyone except Mr. Franco.

Kelly Ann Barnstable
North Adams, MA

The Mooj understands that love can make a person do strange things but surely even you—a bright young girl with her whole life ahead of her—can see that your love for "Mr. Franco" is unrealistic.  Soon you will meet another and he too will cause your heart to palpitate.  Maybe he'll be the right one, maybe he won't.  The one thing that The Mooj does know, however, is that good things are waiting for you and someday you will be very, very happy.  To get there you must first follow both your head and your heart.  The Mooj will meditate, fast and chant for you.        

Hey bud,

I thought you said there was a moratorium on mentioning Skyline Chili in your newsletter?  Last week I saw a letter that mentioned Skyline Chili.  Does that mean it’s okay now to start sending letters about Skyline Chili again?  Actually, if you print this letter then you’ve actually accepted a letter about Skyline Chili, huh?  Not that I give a hoot one way or the other.

“Wavy Gravy” Jenkins
Poughkeepsie, NY

Thanks “Wavy Gravy” for your thoughts (if they were, indeed, thoughts).  

Mooj,

To paraphrase the great Mark Twain, let me just say that the rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated.  I am alive and well and actually doing quite fine, thank you very much.  I have also finally gotten my revenge on that evil mastermind J. Edgar Gayson!

Using the most sensitive surveillance equipment known to mankind (which I checked out prior to my last mission and never returned) I traced Gayson all the way to the Island of Sao Miguel in the Azores, where he had established a secret base of operations.  I acquired his unique temperature signature and used global infrared tracking satellites to follow his every move.  It was then that I discovered that he never left his protective bunker and capturing him was going to be extremely difficult.  I needed some way to lure him to the outside world and so I decided to let myself be captured by his henchmen in Switzerland, knowing very well that he would come there to personally oversee my execution.  And he did.

Prior to allowing myself to be captured, however, I equipped myself with tiny oxygen producing implants inside my lungs and then pre staged 1,000s of pneumatic jackhammers (with compressed air cylinders) along the bottom of Lake Geneva.  I also lined the lakebed with high power magnesium strips.  I was willing to bet my life that Gayson, a big-time gangster wannabe, would tell his henchmen to encase my feet in cement and throw me into Lake Geneva—which he did.

Just as I had planned I floated slowly to the bottom of Lake Geneva and landed on one of the pressure activated time-delayed magnesium strips.  The strips were set with slow igniter filaments and so they did not fully emblazon until Gayson and his men had fled the scene.  I had also coated my wrists with sodium chloride so that it would react immediately with the lake water to produce hydrochloric acid and sodium hydroxide to disintegrate the ropes binding my hands behind my back.  When the magnesium strips were fully illuminated I then spun myself toward one of the jackhammers and connected it to one of the many compressed air cylinders littering the lake bed.  I then jack slabbed myself free and swam to the surface.

Before Gayson had me thrown into Lake Geneva I knew he would give me a hug (I was his godson after all).  While we were embracing I dropped a small transmitter into his sweater pocket.  As soon as I emerged from the lake I used ultra sensitive low frequency tracking equipment (which I had hidden in the woods) to follow his signal to his chalet hideout.

I then quickly set up an observation post and watched as he prepared for his return back to Sao Miguel.  I carefully logged the coming and going of his lieutenants and memorized their habits and routines.  When the time was right I neutralized and took the place of his most junior lieutenant and quickly assimilated myself into his inner circle of thugs.  (I used a top-secret skin graphing technique to remove the face of my victim and place it over my own so that I would look exactly like that person.)  I then traveled back to the Azores with Gayson (and his men) on his private jet and entered his secret compound without anyone noticing me.  Within hours of my arrival I had the entire complex mapped out and selectively defeated all vital security systems.  I then slowly (one by one) neutralized his support staff and inner circle of lieutenants.  Finally it was just the two of us left alive inside his compound.

Now it was time for Gayson to pay!  While he lay sleeping in his bunker I kicked in his door and sprayed the bedchamber with machine gun fire.  He bolted upright and rubbed his eyes in disbelief and thought that I was a ghost.  He begged me not to hurt him but I laughed and beat him senseless over the head with his pillows.  He begged me not to hurt him but I did.  Finally, when he was weak and humbled I told him to bring me all the money he stole from you.  He told me that he had spent everything and had nothing left.  At first I didn’t believe him and so I punished him again—this time more severely.  But he wouldn’t change his story and so I finally made him open his secret vault and saw with my own eyes that all he had left inside was $16.35.  In keeping with our agreement I retained $4.91 (30%) and am forwarding the rest to you.

In the end I took pity on Gayson and set him free.  I figured there was no point in killing him since he was broke, had no friends, and was pretty much S.O.L.

Your pal,
C.J. Merryweather, Jr.
Columbia, MD

Wow! The Mooj is impressed with your skills as a super spy and glad to learn that you are safe and sound.  Thanks for returning what was left of my looted fortune.  I guess $11.44 is better than nothing.  It is ironic that Gayson really was in the Azores.  Last week some idiot wrote into The Mooj Weekly Standard and rudely inferenced that to make my Travels with Mooj more interesting Gayson would be there.  Thanks again for all your hard work in seeking revenge for us.  I hope Gayson has learned his lesson and won't try to rip off some other poor, unsuspecting guru.

Oh, by the way, did you remember to remove all those magnesium strips and compressed air bottles from the bottom of Lake Geneva?  Last night I had a strange psychic dream that there was a horrendous explosion on or near Lake Geneva.  I dismissed it as the ravings of a lunatic (like most of my thoughts) but maybe what I foresaw was all that compressed oxygen and nitrogen reacting with the magnesium and hydrogen.  I'll ask Trent to do the stoichometry and chemical equilibrium equations and see what he thinks.      

Mooj,

I long to tell my wife I’m depressed because I have a secret fetish, but I’m scared she’ll leave me and take our children with her.  I'm 63 and she’s is 25.  She’s a Pieces and I’m an Aries.  Our children are Capricorn and Virgo.  We’ve been married for eight years.  For the past five years I have been cross-dressing in my wife’s underwear and clothes while she is away at work.  If ever she’s out of town I go out to bars dressed in her clothes.  I never feel attracted to any of the men but feel good inside when I’m all dressed up.  Then when I’m back home with my wife I feel ashamed about what I’m doing and how I’m deceiving her.  She keeps asking me what is wrong.  I really want to tell her but cannot risk her finding out.  I have never kept secrets from her until I started to do this.  But Mooj, probably the worst thing about this is that my wife has very poor taste in clothes and I feel I could look much better if I dump her and find another with a better wardrobe.  Should I get some help?

Dr. Carton
Ithica, NY

Okay...what does it say when you log onto mooj.com?  Does it say: "Free Advice for Perverts and Sex Freaks," or does it say: "Free Psychic Advice"?  The last time I checked it said "Free Psychic Advice"!  Listen Dr. Carton (if that is your real name) my whole purpose in life is to help others find self realization—not help freaks work out their sexual perversion problems.  Here's an example of the kind of stuff I like to answer: "Hey Mooj, will I be successful in my new business venture?" ; "Hey Mooj, should I go to either Harvard or Yale?" ; "Hey Mooj, should I change my name to something more numerological correct?"  Not, "Hey Mooj I live in Southern Maryland and got my 10-year-old cousin pregnant, should I marry her?"  The Mooj will no longer entertain letters from perverts!!!!

Actually, perhaps I'm being too harsh.  Perhaps Dr. Carton really has no one else to turn to.  Perhaps Dr. Carton really needs help and has decided to trust me, humble Mooj, to help him through a difficult period of his life.  After all, haven't we all had difficult periods in our lives?  Haven't we all needed someone to turn to?  Perhaps I was too quick to judge Dr. Carton and his problem.  Your solution is actually quite simple Dr. Carton:  surprise your wife with a whole new wardrobe!  Go all out and make her feel like a real woman again!  Make her feel loved and important!  Buy her top of the line stuff from Paris and Milan!  But most of all make sure you look nice in the clothes as well.  

Mooj,

I work at a brokerage firm. There is this guy who works with me, actually, he's my boss, and well, he really turns me on.  His name is Mr. Franco and he's a total stud.  Now I want him to be my stud.  All the girls in the office adore him and try to catch his eye.  I know I'm the one that can treat him the best and will love him the most.  I know if I could just get him to notice me we could live happily ever after.  My friends tell me I'm crazy and obsessed with this man but I know he is my destiny.  Do you think if I dressed a little bit sexier and let him know how "available" I am, he'd go after me?

Karen Lynn Barnstable
North Adams, MA

The Mooj isn't quite sure what's going on there at Mr. Franco's brokerage firm.  Whoever this Mr. Franco guy is I doubt he's getting much work done with all his help always trying to seduce him.  If I'm not mistaken all the girls in love with this guy have the same last name.  That's odd.  Maybe they're sisters?  Anyway, The Mooj gives Karen Lynn Barnstable the same advice he gave Kelly Ann Barnstable and Jenny Barnstable:  just do your job and stop bothering poor Mr. Franco!

There were only eight of us left in the lifeboat.  Everyone else had perished.  We had drifted at sea for weeks and I knew the end was near.  Then I saw a speck off in the distance—was it a whale?  Was it a ship?  Was it an island?  My compatriots and I started paddling as fast as we could toward the silhouette in the distance and soon realized that it was a tropical island.  When we reached the shore we crawled to our safety and each one of us gave thanks to God.  A quick search of the island revealed an abundance of fresh water, fruit, vegetables and wild boars.  The island was totally uninhabited and so we built a small village and set up our own form of government, where each one of us took turn being the King.  We called our new kingdom Abalonia.  Very soon there was dissension and two members of the kingdom broke off and formed their own country called Devonshire. Then three of the six remaining Abalonians succeeded from Abalonia and formed South Abalonia and a Civil War erupted.  Devonshire remained neutral at first but soon became divided itself over which warring kingdom to side with (and then formed Eastern and Western Devonshire).  The war lasted for five days and killed off everyone on the island except me.  Oh how lonely I am!

King Gregory I
King of Southern Abalonia

And you're writing to me because........?  

Mooj,

My girlfriend is desperate because having our baby has ruined her bust.  We have been together ten months and love each other very much. We plan to marry in two years, when we both get out of high school.  She did not breast-feed our kid but since the pregnancy her breasts have lost their firmness and begun to sag.  I love her just how she is, and keep telling her it doesn’t matter a bit to me that she has flabby boobs.  It is her I want, not her body.  She is upset, though, and says she feels ugly and unattractive.  She wants to find out how she can get them fixed.  She says she knows I love her as she is, but she wants to do this for herself.  Come to think of it if she did get really big tits—that would be wicked-ass cool!!  Then she could get a job at Hooters and that would be awesome!!  What do you think?

H. H.
West Ossipee, NH

Again, The Mooj realizes that this H.H. fellow might really need the advice of a sage and so I will entertain his question by pretending I care.  But I don't.  The Mooj thinks H.H. is a loser.  The Mooj thinks H.H. is destined for a life on the dole and that his girlfriend will probably do what she wants to do no matter what he thinks.  What's worse, our tax dollars will pay to feed, clothe and house these three idiots (yes, I'm counting the baby) for the rest of their lives.  

Mooj,

What happening to our sweet and innocent Mooj?  You used to be so kind and compassionate and now you’re just a jerk like your pal Lance Worthy.  Reading your newsletters today is like reading an old newsletter where Lance Worthy was the guest editor (and then you had to apologize to everyone afterwards for his rudeness).  Each week you get ruder if that’s even possible.  And another thing—didn’t you dump Trent Handjoy from your mentoring program because he was arrogant and belittling toward your readers?  If so then why in the world would you let some blowhard like Sir Walter Ott of The Great Thinker’s Society say such unpleasant things about us minions?   The old Mooj would have told Sir Walter Ott to stick his “large sum of money” up his butt.  The new greedy rude Mooj took the money and didn’t say a word.  You never used to drink either.  I blame Lance Worthy for being a bad influence on you.  The more you two hang around together the worse you seem to get.  It seems a shame that Jeff W. has disappeared.  He was the only decent one in the lot!

Gail T.
Garden Grove, CA

I never realized it before but you're right; maybe I am being too rude to my minions.  All these weeks of helping others and I didn't realize that I was the one that needed help the most.  The Mooj will now make a conscientious effort to be nicer and friendlier to his minions, especially to losers like Gail T.  To show that the Mooj really does care I now lift all moratoriums on The Mooj Mail.  If you want to ask or tell The Mooj about anything (including Skyline Chili or Tracy Giovanni) feel free to do so.  I care.  I really, really do.        

Dear Mooj,

My Ma & Pa are driving me crazy.  They were convinced that at midnight on January 1st, 2000 all hell was gonna break loose and so they stockpiled everything imaginable.  While I think it's great that they were prepared, they really went overboard.  For example, they purchased enough adult diapers to last them a year.  Neither of them has a problem requiring them to use such items but they were convinced that their septic tank was going to be fouled up and wanted to make sure they wouldn't be left without a solution.  Anyway, even though there was no Y2K problem they decided to use the adult diapers anyway.  They say they don't want to waste money.  I keep telling them to donate them to a senior home or something but they refuse.  The department of sanitation refuses to pick up our garbage now because it's filled with excrement.  I am at a loss as to what to do.  Please help me.  Don't us my real name, I'm so embarrassed.

Jane Ellison,
Airville, PA

Since The Mooj is now making an effort to care about stupid people and their stupid problems I offer this distraught person some friendly advice:  burn the stuff!  That's right—just pile it all up in the backyard and burn it.  Since you live in York County, PA no one will know the difference. 

Mooj,

My name is Dean Franco and I run a brokerage firm in North Adams, MA.  I'm not sure what it is about me but I just can't find good help these days.  My wife insists that I employ her three sisters and all they do is walk around the office showing off their skivvies and telling me that they want to sleep with me.  I told my wife about this and she says that I'm imagining things.  I'm not even an attractive guy!  I'm old, fat, and bald.  I don't get it!

Dean Franco
Raging Bear Securities, Inc.
North Adams, MA

Me neither.

Hey, what's the deal???  Mooj Minion applications were way down last week!  Only two people requested official Mooj minion status.  If this trend continues The Mooj will be very sad.  Here are the two new Mooj Heads [and (I'm sorry to say) they sound like real winners]:

R.E. Faulks, Mooj Minion #1134 is a 36 year old farmer from Harmony, NJ.  His response to why he would make a good Mooj Head was: "I've always been a hip, with it, kinda guy.  Back when I was in 8th grade I belonged to the KISS Army.  I could also imitate Vinny Barbarino (Who? What? Whooa) and Freddy Prinze (Loookeen Goood).  I could also imitate the Fonz (Aaaay, sit on it nerd) and Freddy "Boom Boom" Washington (Why hello there). Then when I got to high school I used to spray paint "The Wall" on walls to make it look like that Pink Floyd album cover.  I could also play Stairway to Heaven, Smoke on the Water and War Pigs on my guitar.  Then when I was in college I used to talk like the Mekenzie Brothers (hose off, eh).  My life got boring since then and maybe this will be what I need to spice it up again."

"Mr. Whippett," Mooj Minion #1135 is a fast food worker from Milpitas, CA.  His response to why he would make a good Mooj Head was: "I'm at my best when I got my pants down around my ankles and the whole world is gawking at the Rosie O' Donnell tattoo on my big fat butt."

This week's true life story comes to us courtesy of Heddy Franscheska from Garden Grove, CA.  It's a dilly.....

THE MEATBALL SANDWICH

Many years ago when I was a teenager I worked at Pizza Hut.  One summer my grandparents came out for a visit and wanted to see where I worked.  On the night they came in for dinner with my family to surprise me I was assigned dishwashing duties and didn’t know that they had come in until one of the other cooks came back and told me that I had visitors in the dining area.  I went out to see everyone and promised them the best pizza they ever had.  I then quickly returned to the kitchen and asked the other cooks to put a little extra special care in making my family’s pizza.  I would have made the pizza myself, except that the dishes were really starting to back up.

At this Pizza Hut the dishwasher was also assigned the auxiliary duty of making sandwiches.  This was done because sandwich orders were far and few between and they didn’t want to pull cooks off the pizza line during busy dinner rushes. When I returned to the back room to resume my dishwashing duties the dishes were piled high and a sandwich order was waiting to be made.

“Damn,” I thought to myself.  I was never going to catch up now.  To make matters worse this order was for a meatball sandwich and the meatballs needed to be thawed in a microwave prior to being cooked in the sandwich.  I had no time to be fancy so I just threw the frozen meatballs in the sandwich and cooked it as is.  A short time later the waitress came back and told me that one of her patrons was complaining because the meatballs were cold.  She handed me back the sandwich and told me to fix it.  I quickly took the meatballs out from between the rolls and put them into the microwave.  Thirty seconds later I took them out and they were burnt to a crisp.  Again I had no time to be fancy so I tossed them back into the sandwich and covered them up with extra sauce and cheese.

A few minutes later the waitress returned and yelled at me because now her patron was complaining that the meatballs were burnt.  The restaurant finally ran out of clean dishes because I was forced to make and remake that stupid sandwich three or four more times—finally, the patron just got tired of sending it back!

Later that night when I got home from work I asked my grandfather how he liked his pizza.  He replied:

“I didn’t have pizza, I ordered a meatball sandwich and boy was it lousy!”

This week's poem comes from an anonymous donor.  I can't imagine who it was.

The Ballad of G.G., The Polish Stallion

With the nonchalance of a mummenschanz
I strolled across the room

The others stood and gawked at me
Their faces full of gloom

I walked up to the ladies, each
And their hearts began to swoon

I stood out from the others, yes
Just like a red-assed baboon

The Kielbasa King was back in town
With my packaged love harpoon

My stylish coif, my hairy chest,
My bulging pantaloon

Then I spied "her" standing there
Alone, beneath the moon

My manhood swelled with Polish pride
As I uncorked my sausage balloon

But to my horror I realized
That my gulumkie popped too soon

My once mighty kielbasa
Was now shriveled like a prune

 
Don't get mad but I think I'll skip The Travels with Mooj section this week because I really didn't do any traveling to speak of.  As you know Lance Worthy, Trent Handjoy and I are down in Pickens County, SC trying to find our pal Jeff W.  Jeff came down here a few weeks ago to investigate an old unsolved murder (even though we were warned by someone named Deputy Roscoe T. Butcher to stay away) and turned up missing.

The Boy Genius Trent Handy is now posing as a freshman at General Joe E. Johnson High School and Lance and I are working at the cafeteria (of same said school) trying to learn something about Jeff W.'s disappearance.  We have done our best to blend in and keep our eyes and ears open but as of yet we haven't heard a word about poor Jeff.

General Joe E. Johnson High School is actually located in a small town called Pickensville, just across the Greenville/Pickens county line.  There are about 12,000 people living here and everybody is very friendly.  When we first arrived in town you would have thought we were riding in on pink elephants the way everyone gawked at us.  (Not because we are odd looking but because we were strangers).  Our little apartment complex is now swarmed with teenage girls checking out the new boy in town (Trent) and our doorbell is constantly ringing with people bringing us pies, cakes and such.  (It's actually getting annoying.)  Anyway, I guess if we were trying to be inconspicuous we failed.

When we first arrived in town Trent ordered us not to mention anything about the 1978 General Joe E. Johnson High School Prom Massacre (so as not to arouse suspicion).  But, believe it or not, that's all the people around here talk about!  Anytime you meet someone for the first time the first thing they ask you is, "Have you ever heard of the General Joe E. Johnson High School Prom Massacre?"  I can't tell you how many people have given us their own personal tour of the massacre site and graveyard where all the victims are buried.  And it's no secret to anyone around here that it was "Sheriff Deputy Roscoe T. Butcher who dun it."  

As far as Trent is concerned he is loving being a 13-year-old boy (which is what he is).  He has secretly confided in us that this is the happiest he has been in a long time.  He never knew being a teenager was so much fun and wishes that his parents had never sent him off to college when he was only 8 years old.  He actually loves pretending to be an idiot so that he can fit in with all the other half-wits down here in Pickensville.  (Lance and I suspect that a certain blond haired, blue-eyed, freckle faced girl in Trent's English class named Elizabeth Conner Reed has a lot to do with that.)

Lance and I totally hate our job at the General Joe E. Johnson High School cafeteria and are doing everything we can to get fired.  We'd quit but Trent says that if we do so we'll blow our cover.  Sooner or later one of us will overhear something about Jeff W.

So maybe next week we'll know more about what happened to Jeff W.  I keep trying to use my psychic powers to locate him but I can't sense his presence anywhere!  It's like he's out of the country or something.