Georgia to Revamp Unpopular State Slogan

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.

Iraq blah blah blah Suicide blah blah blah Dead

Big Whup: Whale Swims Across the English Channel

Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment

Polish Roof Falls in Following “Drinks Are on the House” Debacle

Every year when Christmas rolls around, kids everywhere are treated to the months of anticipation and hours of fun that only a really awesome Christmas present can bring. Unless they get a robot dog that's retarded.

Last year for Christmas I got a retarded robot dog. It doesn't do anything cool. I was hoping that my robot dog would have heat vision or at least be able to curse in French, but all it does is eat puppy food and pee on the couch. I told my mom and dad that we should check the instructions, because they probably put the batteries in backwards. That happened one year when I got the Hot Wheels Detailing Shop for Christmas and it started smoking and caught the drapes on fire. That wasn't such a big deal though since Billy Doogan down the street got the same thing and his Hot Wheels always looked lame after that, he could never get the paint to go on smooth and all of his cars looked like they were fresh out of a burn ward. But last year I was excited about the robot dog so I thought we should check the directions. My mom and dad said that Santa hadn't brought any directions but I think they were just afraid of being wrong again, like the year I wanted the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers video and it turned out dad got confused and got me Nightly Muff'n Pussy Rangers instead. Dad thought we should just keep it but mom made him take it back and get the right one.

So last year I was stuck with a retarded robot dog that probably had the batteries in backwards. Or maybe it's just deflective from the factory, but something's definitely wrong. My friend Carl Washbaum got a deflective Poo-Chi for his birthday one time and all it would do was rub it's butt on the floor while it made the noise from electronic battleship, and mine is at least ten times more screwed up than his. I even think that mine's getting bigger, which is definitely not supposed to happen. If it keeps this up, pretty soon I won't be able to close the lid on my toybox.

At least Carl's deflective Poo-Chi was fun for a while. We used to hide it under his older sister's bed and she would run around, looking for her cell phone every time it went off. Mine just makes whining noises and chews on an old tennis shoe. And if you thought a Tamagotchi had to be fed a lot, you obviously have never owned a retarded robot dog.

My parents thought I might have fun with my robot dog if I taught it to do some tricks. Billy Doogan has a robot parrot that he taught to say "Fuck You Asshole" just like in Terminator so I thought my robot dog might be able to do some cool tricks too. But unless you consider crapping on the kitchen floor to be a real special trick, my robot dog just plain sucks at tricks. No "Simon Says", no adapter to connect to my Nintendo 64, nothing. I did see him eat a potato beetle over by the pantry one time but I'm having a hard time figuring out how to impress my friends with that one.

It's hard not getting your butt kicked at school when you're missing a front tooth and you whistle when you say "Miss Spankenauber" in class. Everybody thinks you have a crush on the teacher and that means serious underwear violations. Richie Turner really does have a crush on Miss Spankenauber, but his dad brought him a GameCube from Japan last month so he's pretty much untouchable.

If you think a lousy retarded robot dog is going to keep me from coming home with snapped underwear elastic and that it's going to restore my status among my classmates, you're sorely mistaken. At this point, there's only one thing that's going to set things right: a robot dinosaur.

A robot dinosaur would be bound to do some awesome tricks, and probably could eat other kids' robot pets alive. Maybe even other kids. And I bet it could do my homework, too, or at least scare Miss Spankenauber into giving me less workbook pages to do every night. And I'm sure it's got some kind of flashcard mode or some kind of educational thing going on somewhere in there, easily making it a better choice than that lame-o "LearnCo Systems Tutoring Funputer" that I know my parents have been looking at. And I'd be willing to bet you never have to mash up a heartworm pill into a robot dinosaur's food every night.

º Last Column: Where the Fuck's Jesus?
º more columns

The list of sins I committed in a previous lifetime must still be rolling out somewhere, without end in sight. I can find no other explanation as to why I'm back here at the commune. I'm not sure if I feel more like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now or Al Pacino in The Godfather III, but either way it's probably some Coppola movie that doesn't quite work.

You read that right: Back at the commune. My second dramatic exit, and my second crawling-on-all-fours return. There's no good explanation, other than fate driving by in a bus and waving its dick out the window. My fatal error was assuming I could leave this den in iniquity and make a clean break. I improperly assumed just because they hated me they wouldn't ever want to work with me again and get no satisfaction out of sabotaging my career. Guess who's the jackass, guys?

I should have done something sooner. I could see it coming like a freight train, how I was being set up for permanent commune employment. You see, the rest of these misfits, they're perfectly fit for working at the commune. They lack ambition, sensibility, any degree of talent—and while I'm being just plain insulting, they never pick up a check either. But I had a future, a rosy future I could practically smell. Well, I can smell it now, too, and it's more fertilizer than flowers. Over the years, Bagel and his co-conspirators torpedoed my reputation in the non-commune world with ridiculous insinuations I created the "reporting style" here at the commune, a style which is just shy of pure fiction, to tell the truth. I know a lot of commune enthusiasts are going to be outraged to hear that, but if you're a commune enthusiast, let's face it, you have bigger problems to confront.

My "involvement" with the commune reporting style is strictly like that of the involvement of a witness at the site of the Hindenberg disaster. "The humanity" indeed. What started as a joke memo about a funny Clinton story I had heard became the first published commune story I did, and apparently that loose corroboration of the facts and incessant needling of Republicans was just what El Capitan Bagel wanted. Yes, I have to admit, there's a "moron bias" here at the commune. Made by morons, edited by morons, all under the watchful eye of moron number one. Facts? You'll find more Vitamin D in a commune story than facts. Sad to say, but if we're being honest with ourselves, you'll admit you had some suspicions since day one. I say "you" because I'm well aware, despite our preposterous ratings numbers, there's only one commune reader, and we love you here, Emil.

If you're wondering how I can write such inflammatory things about the organization I've just come back to work for, I remind you, being fired from this nightmarish existence would be a blessing in disguise. I have always tried, despite my rocky relationship with the commune overlords and staff, to maintain a polite "work face" to get me through the day. My reward? A slew of titles that have insulted everything from my income to my penis size, crude insinuations about my mother and even my cat on the men's room walls, and being sent on numerous stories where my death was an expected outcome. These motherfuckers play hardball, in short. But I've had it. No more Mr. Nice Dunkin.

Red Bagel's hat is absurd. There, I said it. Consider it the first in many brutal doses of truth I will be handing out, in between the reporting assignments that put me in jeopardy. I'm back, commune, and this time, it's personal.

º Last Column: Burn, Bridges, Burn
º more columns