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Georgia to Revamp Unpopular State SloganNovember 15, 2004 |
Atlanta, GA Georgia Tourism Boar Posters bearing the state’s old slogan may now become even hotter commodities on eBay fter years of stagnant tourism blamed by many on the state’s long-standing slogan of “Georgia: It’s Where They Filmed Deliverance,” tourism officials are convening this month to christen a new state slogan, in hopes of inspiring vacationers to contribute to Georgia’s beleaguered economy. Though officials have yet to decide on what the new slogan will be, one trait shared by all early candidates is a complete avoidance of the 1972 Burt Reynolds hillbilly rape film.
After the Georgia Tourism Board changed its slogan from “Georgia: Wow!” to “Georgia: It’s Where They Filmed Deliverance,” in 1973, the state’s tourism dropped to virtually zero, except for the few stragglers who came looking for “hot, man-on-man action,” and who were mostly ...
fter years of stagnant tourism blamed by many on the state’s long-standing slogan of “Georgia: It’s Where They Filmed Deliverance,” tourism officials are convening this month to christen a new state slogan, in hopes of inspiring vacationers to contribute to Georgia’s beleaguered economy. Though officials have yet to decide on what the new slogan will be, one trait shared by all early candidates is a complete avoidance of the 1972 Burt Reynolds hillbilly rape film.
After the Georgia Tourism Board changed its slogan from “Georgia: Wow!” to “Georgia: It’s Where They Filmed Deliverance,” in 1973, the state’s tourism dropped to virtually zero, except for the few stragglers who came looking for “hot, man-on-man action,” and who were mostly disappointed by their visits to the Peach state. At the time, state tourism officials blamed the decline on poor marketing support, and redoubled their efforts to get the word out about the key role their state played in the John Boorman blockbuster.
“Come on down and learn to play the banjo,” intoned smiling spokesperson Walter Goering, plucking a homemade banjo in the first of a series of television ads shown nationwide in the mid-70’s.
As the state’s tourism gradually fell to negative levels, meaning that now even native Georgians were vacationing in South Carolina, tourism officials expressed bafflement at the public’s reaction to their foolproof campaign.
“Why wouldn’t people want to come visit the natural Georgian beauty what was captured in that movie?” questioned tourism director Samuel Chick in a 1978 interview. “There’s trees, rivers… and some trees. All the things you think of when you think about Georgia.”
Though the hit film Deliverance did feature a stunning panorama of Georgia’s natural beauty, in addition to healthy portions of the manly Burt Reynolds before he went all soft on us, many felt the infamous scene where actor Ned Beatty’s character is violently raped by inbred yokels may have dominated filmgoers’ memories, marking Georgia as a place they would never, ever want to go. Tourism officials, however, remained skeptical of this explanation.
“What don’t they like? That little retard kid with the banjo?” asked Chick in a 1983 interview. “They know he wasn’t real right? Just all foam rubber and airplane glue, like Yoda. We ain’t got none of them in Georgia. No Yodas neither. You find me a banjo-playin’ retard or a Yoda in the state of Georgia, anywhere, and I’ll give you a shiny new apple. That’s how confident I am in that statement.”
The Deliverance campaign continued in Georgia until 1998, when during a hypnotic regression treatment Chick uncovered repressed memories of the rape scene from the film. After attempting to convince the rest of the tourism board of his findings, Chick was fired for being queer. But the event did serve as a breakthrough for several Georgia state officials, who promptly ordered a new state slogan.
Weeks later, Georgia’s slogan was changed to “Georgia: They Actually Filmed Most of Deliverance in West Virginia.” This helped some, but a large part of the damage had already been done in the preceding 26 years. Over the next twelve months, several new slogans were attempted to minimize the damage further, including “Georgia: No Hillbillies Here!” and “Georgia: The Unrapingest Place on Earth.”
Now state officials believe the time has come for a complete break from their sloganing past, possibly with one involving puppy dogs. Early proposals include “Georgia: A Mouthful of the South” to appeal to food fans and “Georgia: It’s Saferific!” appealing to security-minded vacationers by highlighting Georgia’s appealing lack of New York and Oklahoma-style terrorist attacks. This reporter’s suggestion that the tourism board might look into signing Burt Reynolds to act as a pitchman for the new slogan was met with an initial flurry of enthusiasm, quickly followed by a very rude ending to the telephone call. the commune news knows the tourism board’s pain from when our proposed slogan of “New Jersey: Cows Gotta Shit Somewhere” proved even less popular than our used copy of the rare Will Smith country album Hill-Willie Style. Ramon Nootles insists rather desperately that he didn’t actually travel to the south to report this story, but we have the Krystal wrappers to prove it.
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 March 28, 2005
The Best Conspiracy EverI'm happier than a pig still wearing his bacon this week. It looks like, at last, all the years of persistent digging have finally gotten me in the exact hole I've been looking for. I'm now on the trail of a conspiracy so big, so deep, so all-encompassing, that I'm surprised it hasn't been made into a major motion picture yet. When they do, now they'll have to cast the Red Bagel part—I'm in that deep.
It's okay to talk about it, and not only because nobody in the government reads the commune. I am using a pseudonym so clever and ingenious, not only will they never connect it with the Red Bagel you know and love, but I'm also thinking of making it my legal name when I'm done with all this conspiracy unraveling.
Seriously, readers, this conspiracy has it all. The close-knit group of international corporations, aliens, copyright infringement, and the genocide of a species that doesn't even exist yet, but will in the future. This is a crunchy conspiracy, sir. And I'm in it up to my neck. Lucky me!
My efforts in disguise have been commendable, if I may say so myself. Instead of my white riverboat gambler attire, I've been wearing a black suit that fits like it's been tailor-made—all part of the disguise, I assure you, I haven't gone over to the black suit-wearing side. I also shaved my beard, and have put a fake beard on in its place. Going around beardless was quite like going around naked. I have also created a character—name...
º Last Column: A Blemished Reputation º more columns
I'm happier than a pig still wearing his bacon this week. It looks like, at last, all the years of persistent digging have finally gotten me in the exact hole I've been looking for. I'm now on the trail of a conspiracy so big, so deep, so all-encompassing, that I'm surprised it hasn't been made into a major motion picture yet. When they do, now they'll have to cast the Red Bagel part—I'm in that deep.
It's okay to talk about it, and not only because nobody in the government reads the commune. I am using a pseudonym so clever and ingenious, not only will they never connect it with the Red Bagel you know and love, but I'm also thinking of making it my legal name when I'm done with all this conspiracy unraveling.
Seriously, readers, this conspiracy has it all. The close-knit group of international corporations, aliens, copyright infringement, and the genocide of a species that doesn't even exist yet, but will in the future. This is a crunchy conspiracy, sir. And I'm in it up to my neck. Lucky me!
My efforts in disguise have been commendable, if I may say so myself. Instead of my white riverboat gambler attire, I've been wearing a black suit that fits like it's been tailor-made—all part of the disguise, I assure you, I haven't gone over to the black suit-wearing side. I also shaved my beard, and have put a fake beard on in its place. Going around beardless was quite like going around naked. I have also created a character—name withheld, for now—and made up a backstory for him. My guy is a divorced father of three, who pays child support, but receives alimony from his ex-wife, Paulina Porizkova. I had to look it up how to spell it, just in case anyone asks me. I also had an affair with Tawny Kitaen that ended badly, but my character doesn't like to talk about that unless he's drunk.
It's real exciting. This conspiracy puts all the others to shame. This one involves a leather-clad assassin—a female leather-clad assassin. Can you boast that, Watergate scandal? How about you, Vince Foster cover-up? I didn't think so.
I think what I like best about this conspiracy is how damned exciting it is. Too many of these conspiracies I've been involved with have been pretty humdrum. A few loose pages signed over a table, or soft-spoken agreements between the heads of world powers and the corporate oligarchy. Sure, it sounds exciting when you're reading documents, but when you're actively involved, all you can think about is when are you going to be able to get home and play some video games. Not this conspiracy! I've been shot at twice already! It kicks major ass. People finally want me dead, and I don't think it's because I was wearing the wrong colors in gang territory, like Rascal suggested. He also suggested that's why my lemonade stand empire failed.
I worry sometimes this conspiracy is way too big for me to unravel all by my lonesome, especially since my informant, Deep Cock (never let your informants pick their own nicknames, I remind you), is still on the fence about whether he wants to stop it or would rather write a comic book graphic novel about it. I may end up tapping the commune Conspiracy-Busters reserve, which is mostly just Ivan Nacutchacokov, Ted Ted, and photographer Junior Bacon. Still, right now, it's kind of like "my little conspiracy," and I'd hate to lose that, for the whole thing to become a full-blown web of intrigue, something where everybody and his mother's involved. I mean, it is that way, but only on their side right now. I'm not sure I want to share the conspiracy-busting glory just yet.
Ah, what the hell am I groaning about? I should just enjoy it while it lasts. º Last Column: A Blemished Reputationº more columns
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|  September 2, 2002
Lube the TuberI've got the word "cambria" stuck in my head for some reason. No idea what it means. Some sort of strange deja-vu like when you think you should recognize a name and then two weeks later it turns out that was the guy you shot accidentally while turkey hunting. No leads yet on this one, though, and I haven't been turkey hunting in years.
Few things are more unsettling than waking up in the middle of the night and finding yourself floating naked in the middle of outer space, like the baby at the end of 2001. The movie, not the year. Shit if that wouldn't have been scary, waking up one December morning to see a giant baby up there in the sky and suddenly regretting every time you'd ever covered a baby in turtle wax and set it loose on your hood to wax your car. Who'd have thought the payback time would come so soon? Crimeny.
But like I said, I'm talking about the movie, with me floating in space instead of the baby. Neither dreaming nor awake in the traditional sense. Just staring down at the earth like it was a giant jawbreaker, glancing down at the thin, whispy umbilical cord that attaches you to the planet and thinking "Hmmm."
With your next thought you ponder your situation and realize that, in a symbolic sense, the earth represents the realm of your waking consciousness. No, really. The cloud layer girdling the globe keeps you warm and safe within the atmosphere, but at all times there remains the possibility of slipping undetected...
º Last Column: Herman's Hermits: Your Dad's Got Crabs, Eddie º more columns
I've got the word "cambria" stuck in my head for some reason. No idea what it means. Some sort of strange deja-vu like when you think you should recognize a name and then two weeks later it turns out that was the guy you shot accidentally while turkey hunting. No leads yet on this one, though, and I haven't been turkey hunting in years.
Few things are more unsettling than waking up in the middle of the night and finding yourself floating naked in the middle of outer space, like the baby at the end of 2001. The movie, not the year. Shit if that wouldn't have been scary, waking up one December morning to see a giant baby up there in the sky and suddenly regretting every time you'd ever covered a baby in turtle wax and set it loose on your hood to wax your car. Who'd have thought the payback time would come so soon? Crimeny.
But like I said, I'm talking about the movie, with me floating in space instead of the baby. Neither dreaming nor awake in the traditional sense. Just staring down at the earth like it was a giant jawbreaker, glancing down at the thin, whispy umbilical cord that attaches you to the planet and thinking "Hmmm."
With your next thought you ponder your situation and realize that, in a symbolic sense, the earth represents the realm of your waking consciousness. No, really. The cloud layer girdling the globe keeps you warm and safe within the atmosphere, but at all times there remains the possibility of slipping undetected through the clouds and into the limitless space beyond. In this space dreams occur and are interchangeable with memories… every possibility in every situation is remembered as if it did occur and your mind is boggled by the parallel realities.
Suddenly you can remember every dream you ever had, but find it impossible to remember what you really did today among the myriad of possibilities. Which, incidentally, comes in handy when you're eating out since you can have the chicken, the fish and the steak all for one low price.
You remember a conversation you had, or may have had, that day and are suddenly aware of multiple complex layers of meaning and subtexts within the conversation that you were unaware of while it was happening. It strikes you that all interactions between people work this way, with the literal conversation existing only as a crude practicality to initiate the exchange of this wealth of additional information. Unless you're talking to Rok Finger, in which case the subtexts are all mumbled nonsense intended to sound like speech to the casual observer.
From your perch out in space, you realize with an otherworldly calm that you are observing from the perspective of the soul, rather than the worldly personality. You're sure of this because you aren't tempted to make the "Hey, I can see my house from here!" crack that you'd definitely make if your personality were involved. You notice that within this realm there is no possibility of stress or strife, you have no sense of worry, only a sustained sense of fascination. Sort of like being really high, except nobody's giving you any static about being naked.
Some may scoff, skiffle, or die straight away, but this experience has impacted me deeply. I've resolved to live my life without worry, reveling in, rather than attempting to control, life. More than anything I want to get back to that beautiful, serene vantage point in the emptiness of space. Additionally, I think I may have left my address book there, and I need that thing in the worst way. Other related resolutions: no more pickles or David Lynch movies right before bed. º Last Column: Herman's Hermits: Your Dad's Got Crabs, Eddieº more columns
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Milestones1993: Ivan Nacutchacokov/Ivana Folger-Balzac honeymoon ends in stalemate.Now HiringPatsy. Must be willing to take the fall for numerous state and federal offenses. Should bear a passing resemblance to Red Bagel, Omar Bricks or Rok Finger. Immunity to electrocution a plus.Best Sellers| 1. | The Bridges of Macon County, Georgia Bobby Ray Poker | | 2. | The Lord of the Tacky Pimp Rings J.Z.Z.Z. Toolking | | 3. | Mary Contrary, Are You on the Rag Today? Dr. Soobst | | 4. | Oprah's Book Club Can Eat Me Jonathan Franzen | | 5. | I Sure Miss the Cold War Tom Clancy | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY B. Brown Dullard 7/18/2005 ScieneticsSince the beginning of the dawn of time, science man has longed for the answer to the questions of the mind and the science of thinking. From the French peasant to the uppity French king, men of all walks of life, regardless of how much coin they pocket, have asked these questions: Who am I? Who is that guy? Why am I so unhappy? What is keeping me from the things I want? Why don’t I have a goddamn pot to piss in and Cheurvier, that cocky shit, he has that chapeau down on Napoleon Street?
At last, someone has created a science to answer those questions: Scienetics.
Scienetics isn’t some phony voodoo, like voodoo or psychiatry; Scienetics is a fully-copyrighted blueprint of how the mind works, or fails to work, and how we can kick our own minds in the ass or...
Since the beginning of the dawn of time, science man has longed for the answer to the questions of the mind and the science of thinking. From the French peasant to the uppity French king, men of all walks of life, regardless of how much coin they pocket, have asked these questions: Who am I? Who is that guy? Why am I so unhappy? What is keeping me from the things I want? Why don’t I have a goddamn pot to piss in and Cheurvier, that cocky shit, he has that chapeau down on Napoleon Street?
At last, someone has created a science to answer those questions: Scienetics.
Scienetics isn’t some phony voodoo, like voodoo or psychiatry; Scienetics is a fully-copyrighted blueprint of how the mind works, or fails to work, and how we can kick our own minds in the ass or threaten to pinkslip them if they don’t get back to work. And best of all, Scienetics works.
How do I know Scienetics works? Because I do. I’ve been to every corner of this square earth and seen man in all his various degrees. I’ve slept under trees with the bushmen of the Calihari desert, under the thankless moon and the cold onslaught of desert winds. I’ve rested on the couch of presidents, from Eisenhower to Reagan, until I was politely asked to leave. I’ve shared beds with strange men from the suburbs—you name the type of person, I’ve probably had some sort of sleeping arrangement worked out with them. This is because I had no money for several years.
During these moneyless times, I’ve had opportunity to study mankind, and a lot of women, don’t mistake that. I’ve seen him at his peak and I’ve seen him lying in piss under a bus stop bench. I’ve heard stories of success and I’ve smelled the urine. But any fool can do this. What I’ve done is blueprinted the human brain, and some monkey brains, just for fun; I’ve seen what makes us succeed and what makes us fail. I’ve drawn intricate topographical maps and marked the expensive areas to live in, if we were brain cells. Why? Because it’s fun. And because it’s the science to making us the people we’ve always wanted to be.
Make no mistake, this is no $20 fly-by-night self-help method dispelled by enigmatic gurus with no background in science. Scienetics costs much more than that. Yet it’s worth every penny, because it works. I’ve taken complete idiots, morons, bellowing manchilds with no intelligence and no self-respect, and I gave them jobs working for my brother-in-law. I’ve turned around the weakest of minds, and shown them the way to what the Buddha would call "enlightenment." And I can call it that, too, because the Buddha never heard of copyrighting.
The secret right here, and this is the only secret I’m giving away before you buy the book, is one thing: the subactive mind. What is the subactive mind? Well, it’s copyrighted, that’s for damn sure. But it’s more than that. It’s also the instinctive, the sub-level reacting part of our personalities that harbors the nastiest and most petty part of ourselves. It’s that portion of our mind that works against us. Freud called it the subconscious, because he was a junkie moron. But where he got it wrong, I’ve got it right.
The best part of Scienetics is, no matter what you’re problem, we can cure you—unlike psychiatry. If you have an IQ of 70 or 145, or higher like mine, we can take you. If you have an uncle who sexually abused you, and who doesn’t, or a bad series of romantic relationships, we can take you. If you have a wallet full of $7 million or $7, we can take you.
And it’s tax-free.
For more of this insightful non-fiction, buy B. Brown Dullard’s book Scienetics.   |