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Ever since that heartless Patric Juillet dropped me like a sack of rotten turnips three years ago on the other side of my pond, my life became a roller-coaster of miseries, forced labor and interstellar mishaps. Lonely & hungry, ipso fatso, I roamed the countryside in search of lovely carrots and maybe a lawyer but came across a bunch of giggling surfing hippies who gave me a couple of blue pills. They said my life would improve. Vastly.

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Well, it didn't. I decided, maybe rashly, that I should nick a boat and cross the pond to seek my revenge on that despicable faux French (I happen to know that he's really from Iceland, and just because he can boil a potato it doesn't make him an authority on spuds!) He doesn't fool the ass! When I catch up with him I will tell him properly to "potes meos suaviari clunes!" Yes I will.

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My problems started when I landed on a beach, dutifully checking the local fauna at close range. Suddenly out of nowhere came a tall politician with a shiny suit & teeth, from Texas I think, with promises of a well paid job and many bags filled with succulent lettuces.

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I was then promptly saddled, so to speak, to a caravan filled with presidential hopefuls and made to haul them to a place full of sun. They lied to me! No lettuce, not even a bale of hay. All I got was talk and more talk. And no sign of that Icelander!

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Fortunately, with my good looks and cunningness (and some help from a strange little guy) I was able to get away and took a taxi to the nearest restaurant, Assland Grill, where they advertised for a good kitchen ass.

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My dexterity with knives and my knowledge of Latin swear words impressed the head chef. Alongside a few other asses, I got to fry and bake the rest of the summer. That's me below, with the longest ears, right behind the chief ass. I do scrub up, don't I? I mean, have you ever seen an ass as fetching as I am? Eat your sorry heart out, Icelander!

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Just before Halloween I got sacked because I made fun of the other asses and created the most clever dish that would get me to participate in Master Chef. Me on the idiot box, can you imagine! Alas, they told me "Te odeo, interfice te cochleare!". See for yourself, the masterpiece I designed is below:

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Back on the streets again, looking for that fake frog, I was accosted by four men in black. They said I was a proper ass and needed me to go to Mars before the Chinese got there. I agreed but only if they helped me find the man from Iceland. No problems, they said. I was given a very nice orange suit and a packet of smarties.

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I performed really well for an ass. I liked it up there. Until I accidentally pushed the wrong button and zapped the planet I was supposed to secure and plant a flag into. Bummer! Back to earth. And on the streets.

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Then I remembered where the Icelander resided: in an orange, full of peeps. I decided to investigate, in disguise, and cartoonified myself. I searched all over this juicy fruit for signs of the Icelander and all I got was snark. Perchance I came across my old page and a nice message waited for me. If Kos lets me play I might stay for a while....I could be resurrected!

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Enough donkey tales! On with the games!

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Mojo Friday Goals

   
A. At least 300 different commenters and 1000 comments by 1:30 PM EST and 1500 by 4:15 PM EST Friday Night that it's posted.

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I. That's enough for now. (Have a suggestion? Post it.)    
   

MKinTN posted a diary to help everyone achieve greater success called How to Succeed at Mojo Friday Without Really Trying.    

For those of you new to MF (Mojo Friday) we have our own lingo about a few things. Thank's to MF'er Jez (the link will explain) go to this diary for a little more fun and explanation. Official Mojo Friday Snecktionary.  

Originally posted to Asinus Asinum Fricat on Fri Sep 23, 2011 at 07:27 AM PDT.

Also republished by Mojo Friday and Environmental Foodies.

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