I had yet to sell our giant fruit anywhere. Of course the distributors were all in bed with Big Agra or frightened by anti-GM loons. In desperation, I'd taken this road trip. I'd naively expected a warmer reception from these prosaic midwesterners. The old man shook his head, scowling. He took his hand from the pocket of his frayed and patched overalls to point a thick finger at my sample stock.

"It ain't natural," he said, "for fruit t'be that big. No telling what kinda poison GM bugs are runnin' around inside 'em. Besides, how could I USE a lime that big?" I didn't try to argue.

Kumquats the size of grapefruit, limes the size of melons, etc., and tasty as could be. But I couldn't sell them. I took myself back to the truck. I was about out of options. Prolonging this road trip seemed pointless, but I headed east towards North Snyder. The type face on the map suggested no great population center, but since selling my fruit was like trying to sell gold-plated dog poop, what did it matter?

To keep my mind off my troubles I watched for old stone fence posts, my truck trailing a plume of dust like an activist's middle finger. After about 30 minutes I emerged from a small stream valley. About to shift gears, I noticed a party in full swing in front of a large farmhouse up ahead on the right. ZZ Top's "Cheap sunglasses" was being covered reasonably well by a live band, and as I drew closer I could see plenty of beverages being put to good use. What did I have to lose? I swung sharp right and pulled into the driveway. A heavyset man with a huge mustache and white cowboy hat strolled over to the truck, holding a bottle of Corona.

"You lost, stranger?" There must have been close to a hundred people partying in his front yard. A couple of cows watched from the other side of the fence.

"No sir," I said "I don't think I am." I nodded at his beer. "Could you use some limes? Free samples." By this time, a small weatherbeaten woman had joined us, smiling broadly.

"What's up, Al?" she asked. The farmer looked at me, then at my truckload of melon-sized limes. He nodded.

"Seems this nice young man thought our get-together was potluck."

This low-tech viral marketing might work yet, I thought, muscling a lime out of the truck. It was party time.

The end