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.

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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.

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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.

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