I wouldn’t call myself an “animal lover,” but I’m reasonably close. I’m a “cat person” and everything, but I just wouldn’t go so far as to file myself in that category.
To me, the phrase “animal lover” conjures mental images of tree-hugging hippie douchebags throwing buckets of fake blood on fur-wearing celebrities.
The throwing things at celebrities part of that is cool (stupid celebrities! That’ll teach ‘em to be successful at their craft!) but I’m not so comfortable with the tree-hugging hippie douchebag part of it. But I digress.
My feelings about other animals aside, I’ve got issues with Groundhog Day. Lots of issues. Who was the paint-chip-eating moron who came up with this holiday? Hey, here’s a great idea: Let’s pretend that a sorry excuse for a beaver has omniscient control over the seasons! Who cares if it makes no sense whatsoever, it’ll be fun!
If the groundhog sees his shadow, there’s supposed to be six more weeks of winter in store for the country. If he doesn’t, spring will come early. How about we forego all the groundhog crap and just look up at the damn sky? If it’s cloudy, then no shadows. If the sun is out, you’ve got shadows.
Wow, that was easy. Letting alone the fact that this logic has absolutely no bearing on predicting the weather, it does prove that bringing a freakin’ groundhog into the mix is not only unnecessary, but completely insane.
If you’ve ever seen the movie Groundhog Day (which is an awesome movie, and the only good thing to come from this holiday), then you’re aware that there’s actually an annual ceremony devoted to this nonsense.
Every year, thousands of easily amused douche-holes descend on Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania to partake of the festivities. Everyone gathers at a place called “Gobbler’s Knob”—a phrase which brings so many crude jokes to mind that every time I consider it, I fear that my head may explode.
At Gobbler’s Knob, the crowd eagerly watches to see what kind of weather the “official” groundhog will predict for the rest of the season. Yes, there’s an “official” groundhog, if you were unaware. His name is Punxsutawney Phil.
Punxsutawney Phil is treated like some sort of hairy deity at this ceremony, even though he’d probably much rather be somewhere else giving people rabies or eating his own poop—you know, normal groundhog stuff. The following information was taken from a news site, just to show you that I am not exaggerating any of this:
The groundhog's full name is actually "Punxsutawney Phil, Seer of Seers, Sage of Sages, Prognosticator of Prognosticators and Weather Prophet Extraordinary." It was so proclaimed by the "Punxsutawney Groundhog Club" in 1887, the same year they declared Punxsutawney to be the weather capital of the world.
For most of the year, Phil lives in a climate-controlled home at the Punxsutawney Library. He is taken to Gobbler's Knob and placed in a heated burrow underneath a simulated tree stump on stage before being pulled out at 7:25 am on Groundhog Day, February 2, to make his prediction.
Wow. He lives better than I do, and he only has to work one day a year—just like that lazy bastard Santa Claus. I’m in the wrong line of work.
These people need a new hobby. I don’t have anything against groundhogs in general (there’s a very large groundhog who splits his time between my neighbor’s shed and his vacation home beneath my porch. To his credit, he‘s never called the cops on me or anything), but this just goes to show how easily cold-climate people can lose their minds during a long winter. You don’t see people in Arizona standing outside in February. They’re too busy putting on sunscreen and thinking about how awesome it is to not have frostbite.
All of this makes me want to start my own senseless holiday tradition. On Presidents’ Day, I’m going to dress my cat in a fake beard and a stovepipe hat. Then I’ll pull her out of a suitcase and have her predict the winner of “American Idol.”
Yeah, that sounds like a plan.
Here, kitty-kitty…
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