Flick's Tricks for More Google Clicks

Is "Googlier" a word? If not, I'm taking this occasion to invent it. Because I need it for a New Year's resolution.
Last year I resolved to get healthier - which I did, incredibly enough - and this year I'm resolving to get Googlier. As in: being able to Google oneself and find more than one or two obscure references.
Those references, in my case, pertain to my somewhat less than prestigious close-to-last place standings in the Oatmeal Festival 5K Run/Walk. (In case it's not obvious, I was a contender in the " /Walk" portion, not the " Run/" portion.)
Google results show me as finisher #580 out of approximately 581 contestants one year. And, of course, there's no way to explain to the general Google race results-viewing public that this can be somewhat attributed to my friend's dog!
I'm not saying I would have been in the top 50 without Flick (whose name has been changed to protect him from negative publicity.) Or even the top 450. But I might have made it into a coveted Top 550 slot.
The Oatmeal Festival 5K, at least when I last participated, allows contestants to bring their dogs along for the fun and exercise. So my friend and I decided to include Flick, a loveable Malamute, in our foray into the highly competitive world of community-sponsored run/walk events.
But first, we had to detour slightly off the beaten track to pick him up and outfit him with a leash. And then, we hadn't taken into consideration the fact that Flick is a dog of the sociable persuasion. Every encounter with another dog along the race route -- and there were a lot of other dogs -- called for the standard meet and greet routine.
Flick could write the manual on social networking skills. If there were a Doggie Facebook, he'd have hundreds of friends. If you could Google individual dogs (would this be called Pooch Googling? Poodle Google?), Flick would show up on the first page of results without resorting to an Advanced Search.
Once, when we were on just a regular old walk around town and passed by the grain elevator far from Flick's residence, one of the employees came outside, and completely oblivious to the human component of our walking group, nodded and said, "Hi there, Flick!"
So this is one very popular dog-around-town. And what with the obligatory social functions to perform, one thing led to another until it dawned on us that we were at the tail end (no pun intended) of the race, along with a few other stragglers.
As the bright yellow finish tape appeared in the distance, there were still a few contestants trailing us.
Suddenly our canine companion made a beeline for the side of the road and began a telltale sniffing and circling ritual. And sure enough...well, not to be indelicate about it, but...finding a plastic bag and trash receptacle into which to deposit the evidence took just long enough that the stragglers behind us surged ahead, crossing the finish line moments ahead of us.
I put on a last-minute burst of speed as we approached the yellow tape and, with the Quaker Oats man motioning us on, I made it through scant seconds ahead of my friend.
Thus, while Google history recorded me as #580, Flick will have to answer for the fact that my friend filled the #581 position.
In a subsequent year's attempt to redeem myself, I placed 829 out of approximately 900 entrants. Um...there was no dog to blame it on that time, so maybe, just maybe, I'm a slow walker.
I figure at this rate, with the number of contestants increasing yearly, if you Google me in the year 2030, I will have moved up to #3000 out of 3100 entrants.
So I'm looking for suggestions on how to make myself somewhat "Googlier".
Maybe I could use a few pointers from Flick!

Memo to Self: Don't Let Spouse Write the Christmas Letter

Note: This post is actually our 2006 Christmas letter. I know there is now a blog that consists entirely of things someone says in their sleep. My husband isn't nearly as prolific a producer of nocturnal bon mots as this other gentleman, but when I've collected enough new ones, I'll do another blog entry.

Last year when I was complaining about writing the Christmas letter, Dave said, "That's easy! I could do it in my sleep!" Well, I waited and waited and now, here it is after Christmas, and did he write anything in his sleep?
Apparently not! He did, however, talk a bunch in his sleep, so I took notes. I may have missed some of it, but here are some actual Dave Talking in His Sleep sound bites, just in case they were his memos for the Christmas letter:

We'll start with the night he sat up suddenly in bed and announced, "I forgot to mail the literacy bonus coupons!"
I quizzed him the morning after, to see if he recalled the dream leading to this curious pronouncement, but he was clueless. He never remembers any of the stuff he says in his sleep, or what brought it on. Which is probably a good thing, because who really wants to know what kind of dream would inspire you to make a disturbed noise and ask, "What are you farming those fish for?"
Sometimes you can tell that it's a happy dream, like the time he proclaimed ecstatically, "Wow! Lots and lots of corn! Corn on the cob!"
Other times, it leans toward the profound: "Geez! What changes in my life there would have been if I'd gone to visit my uncle!"
Or (holding up the plastic Broncos mug of water on the bedside table): "Guess what? I made a pact with myself to drink this!"
Once it even had Native American spiritual overtones. That was the time he startled me out of a sound sleep by intoning sonorously something that sounded like: "Ah yo ko le....Ah yo ko le" (followed by loud snores).
More recently, I've found I can get him to converse with me in his sleep. But the results are somewhat worrisome. After the following conversation, I lay awake for hours brooding:
Him: "Mighty Ducks."
Me: "What?"
Him: "Mighty Ducks."
Me: "What is it?"
Him: "A hockey team."
Me: "Why are you talking about it?"
Him: (pats me on the thigh) (snores)
Me: (thought process only) Hmm...hockey players...huge leg guards....thighs....fat...He thinks I have fat thighs!

After our latest little sleep-talk conversation, I'm worried he might try to pull some sort of a heist. Here's what he revealed the other night, not long after helping me run a Bingo fundraiser:
Him: "Mmmm mmmm! (mumble, mumble)
Me: "What?"
Him: "Mmmmm! All that (mumble, mumble)
Me: "All that what?"
Him: "All that beautiful money!"
Me: "Where?"
Him: "On the payoffs."
Me (alarmed): "Where?! At Bingo?"
Him: "Yeah!"
Me: "Honey, do you know what you just said?"
Him: "Uh huh."
Me: "What?"
Him: "I wish I was an Oscar Mayer wiener?"

So I guess we don't have to be too worried. Still....if you see a short, 50ish man with a ski mask near your local Bingo emporium, I don't know him!