Stereotypical Deliverance

Recently on the “Tonight Show” Jay Leno had on an entire family of hog callers, each of whom, in turn, demonstrated their widely unenvied prowess to the mocking delight of the roaring audience. Incredibly, it was easily noticeable that these people were peacock proud that their wading level gene pool had produced these show-stopping results, and they were all totally oblivious to the fact that they had not only replaced “Jay Walkers” (Jay’s on-the-street quizzing of our spectacularly ignorant populace), but that they had also attained an even lower level of media loserdum, “DFTSC” (Destined for a “Talk Soup” Clip).

But the worst thing about this whole episode was that these people were South Carolinians. Thought by now you would think I would have become inured to this continuous airing of our not necessarily dirty laundry, but let’s just say it’s all tank tops, “Daisy Dukes,” overalls, and Dale Earnhardt jackets. In addition, there have been other awful emissaries from our state, such as turkey-callers, a tree-climbing dog named “Flatnose,” and some guy who artistically fashioned jewelry out of pigeon poop, all shoved right out there in front of millions of TV viewers.

“Lookie here, America! See what we can do. Yeehaw! And don’t you forget now. We’re from good old South Carolina, the birthplace of such legislative luminaries as Arthur Ravenel, Fritz Hollings and Strom Thurmond.”

Of course, there’s nothing inherently wrong with these agrarian artistes, although I don’t know why a person has to call a hog anyway. Aren’t they penned up in a sty so you can just walk up to them? They’re not going anywhere. And turkeys. Aren’t they supposed to be the world’s stupidest animals? They probably can’t even recognize a turkey call. You can just walk up to them, axe in hand. I’m assuming that’s the only reason they’re called in the first place, and the poor hogs, too, for that matter.

As for “Flatnose,” dogs don’t belong in trees. That’s trifling with Mother Nature, not to mention their imminent peril from squirrels during nut gathering season. Lastly, the pigeon pooh sculptor certainly could find a more aesthetically and sanitary pleasing medium, for example, some of our state’s naturally occurring by-products such as peanut shells, toothpicks, beer cans or hub caps.

But, the point is, we don’t need these kinds of images of S.C. constantly propagated by the electronic media, which simply reinforce our mortifying national stereotype. Why can’t we have a researcher who’s discovered a cure for cancer on Leno? A Pulitzer Prize winner on Charlie Rose? Or a Broadway star on Letterman? Actually, there was a young high school student from Goose Creek who made national headlines by conducting the Boston Pops Orchestra. He could play a dozen instruments, won a prestigious music scholarship and is obviously going to make a name for himself nationally. My God! If Goose Creek, a city whose typical resident is routinely rejected by the “Jerry Springer Show” for fear of besmirching the show’s reputation, can produce someone like this, why can’t the rest of the state?

We have to face it. Most of America thinks our entire population is nothing more than a macrocosm of the Clampett Family Reunion.

I, in fact, am personally affected by this indelible stigma, at least on an annual basis, whenever I take in a comedy club on my trip to New York. Although enjoying professional comedy is always the apex of all my Big Apple activities, I am still forced to pay the fiendish fiddler because my laughter is constrained by shudders of start terror, as with each wisecracking performer, I anticipate that dreaded contact of eyes followed by the inevitable:

Comedian: And where are you from, sir?

Me: Uh, Wisconsin.

I’ve even gone to the extent of rending “Fargo” and studying the dialogue, but I don’t think I could fool anybody. Luckily, I have a flat Charleston accent, which is certainly not typically Southern, so perhaps I could get by claiming to be from somewhere else, but I would still be fearful that somehow the comedian would know the truth, and then, of course, it would be even worse. Or the black desk clerk from my hotel would stand up at her table and shout while pointing accusingly in my direction.

“That boy ain’t from Wisconsin. He’s from SOUTH CAROLINA! And I think we know what that means, mmm hmmm.”

Then the comedian would be on me like the stain on that notorious blue dress:

“Well, that explains why your hair’s messed up. You drew the short straw (and it was a real straw) and had to ride in the back of the pick-up tonight. Is that your wife or your sister with you? Actually, in your case, I guess she could be both. Look, don’t think I’m not sympathetic. I know it’s a big adjustment for you here in the biggest of big cities, but actually it won’t be that bad, really, once you get used to wearing shoes.”

My only reasonable option would be simply to sit there and take it, although it would definitely be tempting to get up and make a mad dash out of the place, if I didn’t think it might resemble that scene in “Marathon Man” when Lawrence Olivier (Dr. Mengele) was recognized by his Jewish holocaust victims and chased through the streets of this very city.

Thankfully, none of this has happened to me yet, but only because I have taken the somewhat extreme, but obviously effective measure of sitting way in the back of the room, never looking in the comedian’s direction, and scotch taping the outside corner of my eyes back in order to appear Asian.

Actually, the time has almost passed for us to correct this absurd perception of our citizens so, in desperation, I have taken matters into my own hands. I have already been selected to be on “Millionaire,” where I plan to proudly announce that I am a South Carolinian. With the national expectations for South Carolinians having success of any kind being extremely low, I figure if I just get the $100 question right, I will have done more for my state in that ephemeral moment than Strom, Arthur or Fritz could do by retiring.

Regis: Well, Bob, you’ve told us that you’re a freelance writer and Mensa member, whose interests are nuclear physics, Post Jacobean Cinema Verite, Chinese Mandarin crossword puzzles, classical music, pre-Columbian Abstract Expressionism, electrical engineering, and poisonous lawn darts au naturale. But are you ready to play the game?

Me: Bring it on, as they say (ha ha ha).

Regis: Okay, Bob, here goes. What is a Pig Pickin’? A) A Rosie O’Donnell look-alike contest; B) Something a pig does to his nose to make it look that way; C) A Southern barbecue cook-off/outdoor dinner; D) Pre-abbattoir porcine selection day.

And, thus, my Catch-22 dilemma would be revealed in all its irritating irony. Of course, giving the correct answer (C) would move me on to the $200 question, however in so doing, I would simultaneously reinforce the Southern Billy Bob stereotype. Answer it wrong, and while I don’t advance, at least, I drop an oblique hint that all those lies I told Regis about myself may actually be true.

Well, readers, I’m not going to ruin the quasi-suspense by telling you how I would answer such a question, should I be so unfortunate to get it. I can only assure you that I will do my very best to rectify our state’s horrendously embarrassing image. So, check your local listing and prepare to be Palmetto Proud!