So. It seems that many of what I’ll call “Bloggie Visitor Anomalies” (BVA’s) have been happening. Squatlo has reported that he has had spikes of more than 2,000 Korean visitors to his site in one day’s time, a BVA. When he evaluated the postings that drew the Korean visitors, Squat could find no tangible reason to attract Koreans as opposed to, say, aardvarks.

Isn’t aardvark a great word?

A buddy of mine here to Austin said that he wrote a story about his dying grandmother and the wishes she had for each of her offspring and their progeny. Within an hour of posting the bittersweet story of his Gram’s last wishes, his site was crashed with comments from porn site trackbacks and pingbacks. Another BVA. He also could find no visible, tangible reason for the occurrence.

I have been getting significant middle European visitor spikes, BVA’s, to a story posted here in March of last 2010. One of my earliest postings, this story has attracted 50% of my total visitor traffic to this site. Since it was posted almost three million words ago, one of my faithful everyday readers asked me to post it again.
I shouldn’t do this because the story is in my book and you should fucking buy it. But I don’t really give a shit, so, here goes. This is the story that puts my website at the top of several Google searches. Reprinted from March 24, 2010, I give you:

“Forbidden Fruit and How to be a Man; Sometimes it Hurts to be a Man”

So. Life is full of dichotomous situations. You know what I’m talking about- those times when you are damned if you are doing, and likewise damned for don’ting. I encountered one of those dichotomousses yesterday afternoon when I went over to the Sprouts there to the Arboretum.

Maybe that should be “dichotomousi”.

I wanted to take advantage of their special on sweet Italian sausage so I drove over in Gram’s Ferrari. She needed my truck to deliver some mushroom juice to a new customer, and the weather was too nice to pass-up on the hot red sports car. Besides, Italian food- Italian car. I was making fresh tomato souga with basil and garlic and secret ingredients. Souga is Italian for sauce, kind of like salsa is Spanish for salsa. Dr. Sam I. Am taught me this recipe back when she was wife/psycho therapist and not just therapist.

Look, Whole Foods is my favorite grocery store, and likewise always will be. But for certain things, Sprouts is it for me. Like the stuff that I’m OK with in a non-organic state, like grapefruit.

So. I buy my groceries, and since I was there I figured I might as well accommodate myself and get the two-bags full that fit in the tiny backseat of Gram’s car, and go to leave. Wait- two bag fulls. It has to be “fulls.” As I was lifting my two bags from the shopping cart to hustle off to my ride, my eyes were captured by a Woman walking into the store.

Said woman was dressed for exercising and looked well exercised. Her cheeks were rubied and fully-blushed and she had a misting of sweat on all of the exposed skin not covered by the tight Lycra skin that was her hot pink outfit.
Of course, it is possible that the “just exercised” part of her look was just for looks, and the cheeks were blushed with makeup and her sweaty mist was sprayed-on from an atomizer. In that part of town it’s maybe 60/40 either way.

Anyway, her hair had a sprinkling of gray, she was in great shape- not ripped and bulimic looking, just sleek and smooth. She had a pretty face and inviting eyes.
And there, doing the pocket Rumba, sat the plumpest, juiciest-looking most robust camel toe I have ever seen. I mean ever! This thing looked like the woman was its caretaker, not its owner. It was incredible, and I don’t use the word “incredible” lightly.

Once my eye caught it, my eyes were caught. I stared like the moron I am from the first spotting- from maybe fifty feet out in the lot, until it rumbled its way into the store and past me. It was a wonderful day here to Austin- sunny and mild, and the clean sunlight sent cascades of sparkles off that shiny, pink fabric in hypnotic jumbles and swirls. By the time I managed to refocus my eyes I saw that the fifteen others around me were just getting their focus back as well.

“Holy shit,” remarked the elderly woman standing beside me said. Then she grabbed my arm and urged to me, “Please Mister, would you look to see if I’ve got one of those?”

I did, she didn’t. I told her, “No Darling, but I do like your belly piercing. Is that a real diamond?”

Then all the other women were getting opinions from me. I guess I looked like an expert on the subject. So after a few minutes of playing FDA inspector and passing judgment, someone suggested to me, “You outta tell that woman she’s packin. It would only be right.”

I went to the car and wedged my groceries to the back seat, got myself seated- a job into its ownself, started the car, and then started to thinking. A mind is a terrible thing to waste, but terribler in the wrong hands. Terrible-more?

My first actual thought was if steroids could possibly be the root cause behind this woman’s loaded crotch. But her muscles didn’t match steroid rage, so I discounted that. I moved on to more profitable thinking and I wondered, “If a woman has a world class camel toe, should you say something to her about it?”

A very good question, Mr. Johnson. Now, don’t shut down on me because I’m inappropriate. Go with me on this for just one more minute. I mean, think about this with me. Follow my logic tree.

OK. Supposition Number 1: the woman either knows that she’s got a double-wide flap of woman meat bulging from her crotchie, or not. Right? She either knows or doesn’t know.

Supposition Number 2: if she knows, she is proud, and: A. she wants you to look and compliment her, or: B. she’s trolling for a man that likes meaty-crotched ladies, in which case she wants to give me her number.

Supposition Number 3: if she is totally unaware that she could play a stunt double for the butcher shop in the movie Rocky, then wouldn’t she want someone, like me, to let her know? Kind of like that dealie where you walk up to a stranger and say, “Look, I don’t want to pry into your personal business, but you’ve got a Caesar salad stuck in your teeth.”

You know, that kind of situation.

So I’m thinking that maybe someone does need to man-up here and talk to the Lady and since I never shirk responsibility, I’ve got a man’s job to do. I turned the Ferrari engine off, endured the exercise that is getting out of the little car, and proceeded inside the store. I’m looking for the woman and realize all I need to do is follow the trail of glazed-over eyes.

I find the lady over to produce, inspecting a pair of the giant avocados that were on special at two for $1.00, a great price. Ever a man with a quick wit and light tongue I told her, “Don’t try to smuggle those out of here in your pants. That camel toe of yours will kick some avocado ass and you’ll be scooping your guacamole from a V-necked bowl.”

Now look. How much more clever and appropriate could a remark have been? I didn’t say, “Holy shit lady, how many days can your camel go between drinks,” or, “Better build a corral for that thing,” or something rude. I didn’t ask her if she was ashamed of herself for keeping the poor camel cooped up, and I for sure didn’t say, “Hey lady, all I see are his feet. Where’s the rest of your camel?” Nope, I didn’t do any of that rude shit. I tastefully let her know that I knew and let the chips fall where they fell.

Anyway, this lady got a funny look to her face, smashed the avocados in my face, slapped me (hard) on each avocado-slathered cheek, and stormed-off to find the manager.

Having experience in similar situations, I stood where I was to wait for the store manager rather than run from the store. I have found store managers to be much better listeners than the police.

So I wait for like a minute, maybe less, for lady and manager to arrive. I think Sprouts has excellent customer service. That circumstance would take at least three minutes if we were at any regular grocery store. The lady tells the manager, a sturdy man of maybe thirty-five, her side of the story, shows the camel toe to him after he asked to see the evidence, and then she slaps me again for good measure.

The manager gives me the usual look I get from retail managers in these situations, turned to the lady and says, “Thank you, Miss. Give me your name and contact information. I will take a report and handle things from here.”

So, she thanks him, gives him her info, slaps me one more time for good luck, and storms off. “You,” he says as he points a stiffened index finger in my chest, “to my office.”

We get to his office and he closes the door, points to a chair in front of his desk and says, “Sit.” I do ande sits down behind the desk, takes a deep breath and opens a drawer of the desk to pull out a pint bottle of Hornitos.

“Here, you first. Your exposure was far longer than mine.” He offered the bottle to me for a slug.

I obliged and passed it back and he guzzled a shot from the little bottle of tequila. He swallowed the booze with a grimace, looked first to the ceiling and then he crossed himself in classic Catholic method. “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” he almost whimpered. “I wanted to touch that thing so bad I was shaking. I had the image of pulling a rabbit out of a hat.”

“I understand, young man, but that’s a forbidden fruit,” I counseled. “Men have got to be strong in the face of these new trends in women’s’ sportswear.” I think I’m quite a good role model for this younger set.

“I’m not calling the police or anything, but we need to stay in here until she has left the parking lot.” Then he lifted his phone and had someone bring us some limes.

“We need a drink.”

A young woman of maybe nineteen came in with the limes and said, “Better call the produce distributor, Harry. We’re almost out of avocados.”

As I was driving home, recounting the incident, I decided that my logic tree needs an arborist.

Fuck Walmart.