For those of you who think you're crawling around the Internet like a stealth KGB operative because you've turned on the private surfing settings on your browser, please step out of the delusion cloud.
I am not a software guru. I am a Regular Person with a few humble Web pages. When I started them, it took about 10 minutes to figure out how to add a hit counter. What does it tell me? I can practically see your underwear.
Case in point: On June 17, 2007 at 1:11 p.m. EST, someone from the Halliburton Company whose server routes out of Houston, Texas Googled lifesize silicone men dolls. My online rant on Realdolls was hit number 11. During their 48-minute stay at my site, this visitor reloaded that entry six times.
Got Dick Cheney?
I've been running this here blog for more than five years and the associated pages, which number over 1600, are firmly embedded in the mysterious search engines of Google and Yahoo and the like. I'm not sure which is more disturbing, what people ask of search engines, or the fact that it brings them here.
That said, some of the queries fill me with pride. Welcome ye who seek the biggest breasts in Ohio and sexy human beings, and perfect labia. I am humbled that someone believes I hold the secret by which one may learn how to understand men and beat them. I hope they found what they were looking for at my place, but I doubt it. I couldn't write the supporting essay for that headline to save my life.
There are wholesome inquiries as well. People come to the Owner's Manual looking for fried spam and pickled turnips and family- style dining and hostess thankyous. I often blog about being a housewife and the associated tools of the trade. Hence, they come in search of Hoover wind tunnel repair manuals as well as sandwich fucked housewifes. Although I have never engaged in any sort of inappropriate behavior with a pastrami on rye, I appreciated the way Google politely asked he (or she) who was inquiring about the Girl-meets-Patty- Melt love story, "Did you mean sandwich fucked housewives?" If only Google could correct all of our errors.
A search query can endear me as well. I just plain like anyone looking for generic beer photo or perfect cunnilingus instructions or whispering sexy thin. And what's not to love about he who seeks Obrien lucky's auto bath or Abe Lincoln mullet or shocking beer can instructions? You guys get my vote. And if you're out there, did you find your dreams of foreplay in my story about an early-morning tryst with my husband? Did it make you smile, baby? Did it make you purr?
Should I take dry orgasm as a compliment or an insult? And I'll admit it, I am known for the Smack Your Own Ass! Feature during my live chats, but I have never posted anything that resembles a YouTube spanking.
Then there was this: family looking to buy human egg tall blonde 10,000. Family values, huh? Not only do I know what you value, I know exactly how much you value it. And what if the kid ends up short and brunette? Will you look at him or her and think: Damn. Sure didn't get my $10 grand's worth?
I hoped my presumptions were wrong, that the query was out of context and that 10,000 did not mean $10,000. Nonetheless, it made me sad.
Sometimes my hit counter reveals things I never wanted to know.
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