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 open this column with a firm and hearty, "Thanks, dicks." This is not directed to you dicks reading at home, but to the dicks who neglected to inform me Red Bagel had returned and the commune staff was operating normally under his rule again. I was barricaded in that office since May, fearing swift and brutal retaliation, while at any time someone could have knocked on the door and said I was merely demoted again. True, I probably would have considered it an attempt to lure me out and not believed them, but it was worth a shot.

It's all meaningless what-iffery by now, since I was forced to come out to use a regular rest room after my coffee can filled up, and noticed the staff laughing rather than lunging at me with swords and daggers. When I asked, someone even told me Bagel had annexed the floor above us for his own new office, and I could have the dank dungeon I had made my own since January, if the smell of human waste didn't nauseate me. It doesn't, so I thank Bagel's kindness and take it as a minor promotion for all my good work in his stead.

As you can tell by all this, I'm no longer a big deal around the commune offices. But from what I understand, if the door to the office had been open when Bagel returned I would have been castrated and choked with a frayed electrical cord, so waiting had its advantages as well. After enough time, and self-prescribed morphine, Bagel was back in a friendly mood and decided to merely demote me to King of Dinks, a title which Raoul Dunkin had to relinquish to me.

Some could see it as failure, but I look at it as an inverted success. Sometimes you have to fall back to the bottom of the ladder and start your career over to move ahead. And that's what I'm doing at the commune. Also, as you can see, I was mightily addicted to sharing my thoughts with the readers after months of filling in on Bagel's "Or So You Thought" column, so I decided to introduce my new rotating column "Poop of the Century." True, I wanted a regular semi-weekly feature like Finger or Bricks, but it was Bagel's suggestion I do a periodic column or sit on it and rotate, hence the idea. He was right, too; now that I'm freed of the duties of Acting-Editor I can return to my first love, masturbation—I mean, reporting. Sitting in my smelly office writing columns all day isn't my style, at least Bagel says so.

Unfortunately, the call to write a column is muddled with the call to prove to the world I'm not dead, so that's mostly what this beginner's column is about. It's important I get my Social Security number reinstated so I can find a new apartment and re-open my bank account. Personally, I'd hoped someone at the commune might have mentioned I was in the office and hadn't been killed on the job as the death certificate said, but in fairness, as Lil Duncan said, everyone was extremely busy trying to bust the piñata when the investigators dropped by.

Don't expect this little corner of the commune to be another self-indulgent crybaby's story of the little things in life that piss him off. Let the other columnists engage in that ego-stroking. Ramrod Hurley is interested in tackling the bigger issues of the day, and blowing your mind in the process. That's a lot to do in one column, one particular edition might have more blowing and less issue-tackling, but in general I'll try to mix the two well enough.

I just hope you readers are into getting tackled and blown.º more columns

Hey, Shorty, go easy on that Red Man, wouldja? Thass all I got left, and you know how I like me a good chaw after supper. Toss it over t'here. Thanks, Shorty. Hey, you know what that reminds me of? That night with the talent scout down at the ol' Smilin' Dog Saloon. Was you there that night? That was one for the books, Shorty, I tell you what.

You know that ol' gal, what's her name, somethin' kinda Frenchian, started singin' a couple nights a week there 'bout two years back? Neeter... Neeter Faye. Neeter Faye Waterboux. Yeah, Neeter Faye Waterboux, you remember, don'tcha, Shorty? Sure you do.

Anyway, she'd been singin' there at the Smilin' Dog, you know, that bar ol' Roy Toe runs, down there at the Cherokee Ho-tel downtown, and she'd been bringin' in some pretty good crowds, I guess. Ol' Roy was about as happy as a fat tick on a weasel with all the bidness he was gettin', so when she wanted to bring in a feller she knew from up there in Raleigh to try to give the place a little more pumblicity, why, he was all for it. What he didn't know was that Neeter Faye was hopin' this ol' boy, Luther Waldrip was his name, was gon' be her ticket to Hollywood or Las Vegas or one o' them places. She wanted to be a star, you know?

Well, see what happened was Neeter Faye had it all planned. She wanted Roy to put on this big ol' extravagranzal for the night Luther was gon' be there, and then she was gon' be the headliner and make her big day-bew and become a star. So she lined up a few other folks to go on ahead o' her -- like that square-dancin' couple, Johnny and Earline Ashton, and Jimmy Wayne Markel, the juggler.

Now see, the problem started when ol' Jimmy Wayne heared about this feller out west somewheres that was a-jugglin' chainsaws. He hadn't never juggled no chainsaws hisself before, but he figgered jugglin's jugglin', so he was fixin' to give it a try. And he wanted to do it special-like, on account o' Neeter Faye's big night and that ol' boy Luther bein' there.

Anyway, that night, there's ol' Luther sittin' right there in the front row, and Jimmy Wayne comes out with a chainsaw, a bowlin' ball and a pack o' Red Man, and he starts to juggle all three of 'em at oncet. But here's the kicker, Shorty -- that chainsaw was a-goin'! And here's Jimmy Wayne, just a-tossin' it in the air like it ain't nothin'. Well, ol' Luther's eyes like to bug out when he seen that. Then, on top o' that, Jimmy Wayne pulls out a pinch from the Red Man pack whilst he's a-jugglin' it, and sticks it in his cheek!

Thass prob'ly where he made his mistake. See, the chainsaw then come down the wrong way, and instead o' him flippin' it back up in the air, that thing went and sliced off half o' Jimmy Wayne's forearm. I mean, you could see his meat and ever-thin'. Ol' Luther didn't know if that was part o' th' act or what, 'cause Jimmy Wayne just kept on a-jugglin' all them things like a billy-be-damn. With one hand! 'Course it weren't too long afore all hell broke loose, seein' as how Jimmy Wayne's hand landed in Neeter Faye's cousin Wanda's lap, and she started in t' screamin', and then blood started spurtin' outta Jimmy Wayne's arm stump an' gettin' all over ever-body in the front two rows, and then he finally passed out from losin' all that blood. Them folks up front was just lucky that ol' chainsaw just put a big hole in the stage, 'stead o' chewin' up a few more folks afore they could get it turned off. I ain't lyin', Shorty, I was there, and I seen it. You could ask anybody.

Well, the upshot o' all that was that Luther never did get to see Neeter Faye sing that night, what with all them folks gettin' sick and passin' out an' all. But last I heared, ol' Jimmy Wayne done all right by hisself. He's out there in Californey now, calls hisself Jay Dubya, th' One-Armed Juggler. I guess he uses one o' them fake hands, whaddaya call 'em, a prosthetutic, and he starts in jugglin' with that, then slips it off an' starts tossin' it in the air along with all his other props.

Neeter Faye, now, she's still singin' a couple nights a week down at the ol' Smilin' Dog. You know what we oughta do, Shorty? We oughta go down there one o' these nights and give her a big hand.

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