I'm not feeling it.
The idea of allowing an over-grown rodent to predict the near meteorological future isn't flying with me. I get it- believe me- I get it. The pomp and circumstance of hauling this groundhog - who no longer lives in the ground, by the way- out every year, the ceremony, the pictures... it's very dear, and I'm sure he enjoys it immensely.
So legend has it- if the groundhog comes out and sees his shadow, he gets scared and goes back in and it's six more weeks of winter. I've got a problem with this. If he sees his shadow, then there's gotta be some semblance of sun out, so how does that constitute more wintry days ahead of us? Don't insult my intelligence, or the intelligence of groundhogs. There must be some sort of international allegiance (or at least a Facebook page) for groundhogs who are furious over the fact that human kind has invented a scenario in which these hogs of the ground don't understand the basic principles of seasons; or that they are such cowardly creatures as to be scared into six weeks of self-imposed imprisonment by the sight of their own shadow. I mean, honestly. Honestly.
I would love for one uppity groundhog to walk out, and declare "It's February 2nd, of course there's about six more weeks of winter left. Look at a calendar, douche bags." And then walk back into his domicile with his middle claw extended in the air for all to see. Such a groundhog would have my admiration.
But until then, it's Punxutawney Phil, every February 2nd forever and ever- or at least until the groundhogs rise up and destroy us.
2 comments:
Also: why not entrust another animal to foretell the weather? Why not a cat? Cats are very intuitive?
Also: OF COURSE the groundhog is freaked out. If you walked out of your bedroom, saw flash photography, and a ton of people looking at you anxiously, for some sign of their fate, wouldn't you get the heck back into bed?
I think at this point the groundhogs hold a monopoly on meteorological prediction. Although they can't be pleased with their station, it is A station after all, and they can't be too unbelievably picky- what else would they do? (I think there's another blog post in there...)
And I'm not the best person to answer your follow up question, as I am far too used to the paparazzi hounding as soon as I exit my bedroom. The price of fame... if only in my mind...
Post a Comment