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Dear friends,

You, of all people, know of my splendor. Don't try to deny it—I've noticed how I take your breath away with my majestic nobility, my brayful boldness, and my artful big nostril/small nostril sneer. I don't have to explain to you what profound gladness comes from viewing my magnificence.

I want everyone to know the joy that comes with looking upon me, Fenway Bartholomule, and I thought that Instagram would be a perfect vehicle for the transmission of that joy. Sadly, there is a major wrinkle in this generous plan. Four wrinkles, really, and they are as follows:

1) vodka beverages
2) ladies' footwear
3) antlered deer
4) off road vehicles.

Friends, FarmWife can Tag and Tag and Tag her photos until the cows come home* but I promise you she cannot saturate Instagram with images of me, Fenway Bartholomule: the interwebs are  already flooded with gingery mules in copper cups, strappy mules on ladies' feet, dead mule deer next to gun-toting lads, and muddy four-tired utility vehicles.

The only off road vehicle I'm interested in is this sort (courtesy www.facebook.com/pantsthemule):

Despite the plethora of non-equine mules on Instagram, FarmWife says we will persevere. I may not be the only mule on Instagram, but at least I am the most mulish.

Ears,
FenBar

* I hope the cows don't ever REALLY come home. I find them icky.

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