So what’s the deal with all these non-Flori-duh states flooding my pristine (just kidding) airwaves extolling their virtues?
My screen’s filled with crap about why I need to haul my butt to … Michigan, or New York, or Pennsylvania. Comeon, man!
Do you really expect me to buy into the fly fishing routine?
Or the crystal clear waters of Michigan? You still have Flint on your hands.
The sunshine and the clear days … that would be Washington State on the three days it doesn’t rain.
And they don’t limit their promos to TV. Checkout license plates!
The quickest way to get a fix on a state’s alter ego is to tailgate an out-of-stater and read their license plate motto.
They’re mobile billboards for braggarts.
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Idaho – “World Famous Potatoes” … Says who?
Oklahoma – “Native America” … Did anyone ask the Native Americans?
South Carolina – “The Iodine State” … Shouldn’t that be mercurochrome?
North Carolina – First in Freedom … Unless you want to use the bathroom.
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But, my fair state, Flori-duh, makes license plate advertising as inscrutable as their politics.
In addition to “The Sunshine State,” Flori-duh offers over 100 other plates touting children, education, horses, manatees, agri-business (Think Big Sugar), the military, colleges and universities, cultural/family values.
You name the group and our state “tags” it.
So we’re painfully in need of a “kick-in-the-gut” marketing motto.
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What’s Flori-duh stand for? What’s our core appeal? How do we get folks to pack-up, pick-up and haul their fat wallets down here?
#1) Our world famous wet t-shirt contests. Think Spring Break. What’s more fun than watching someone pour an ice cold Mai Tai down the front of a pair of U of Minnesota Nordic breasts?
“Flori-duh – Birthplace of the Wet T-Shirt.”
2) Gator attacks. Screw Disney, Busch Gardens and Gator Land. You can wade in our rivers, ponds and lakes and wrestle your own damn alligator. What’s an arm or a few toes … you got two arms and 10 toes. Live a little.
“Flori-duh – Wrestle your Inner Gator!”
3) The Dade County I-95 Thrill Ride. Think bumper cars at 95 mph. Add driving thunderstorms, flooded underpasses, gale force winds, coked-out competitors, and no cops until you hit the next county line. Dade County’s I-95 Indy 500 car chases look like Grand Theft Auto on steroids.
“Flori-duh – I’m an I-95 Survivor.”
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Or, we could just say “Come to Flori-duh … the Last Frontier” … for the wild, the weird, and the truly strange.
Just sayin’ …