February 2, 2015

Your cryptic clue of the day:

The Rabbi, in the temple, with the pinking shears.

February 2, 2015

An open letter to America from a cranky groundhog

A letter from Punxsutawney, PA

Note: This posting was sent to me for publication by the groundhog referred to in the press as “Punxsutawney Phil”, who has asked me to post it here since he has no internet access (“Don’t believe any of the crap they feed you about my having a Facebook page. These pricks won’t even spring for 1200 baud dialup despite the millions they make off me.”)

Dear America:

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE???!!!!

Here I am, in my den sleeping peacefully (it’s called “hibernation” LOOK IT UP!!!!), dreaming a really nice dream about hot groundhog sex with hot groundhogs (imagine a furry Sarah Palin, but to my relief its actually Tina Fey) and suddenly, some yutz, some colostomy bag, some chowder-head, some smegma-faced git with cold hands and a top hat, grabs my leg, yanks me out of my warm bed, then holds me up in front of a sea of camera wielding cretins with press credentials, so I can predict the freakin’ weather.

Me.

A groundhog.

Marmota Monax. A member of the order Rodentia.

Try as I might, whether I consult Wikipedia or Britannica, nowhere does it say I have a degree in meteorology, climatology, or even atmospheric thermodynamics. I don’t tell appallingly bad jokes, nor crack vile puns about “snowmen” and “snowballs”. Aside from a rather generous figure, I look nothing like Willard Scott (or whoever the fat guy is who does your local weather).

Let’s look at my Wikipedia entry, shall we? What are my credentials?

"Groundhogs are excellent burrowers, using burrows for SLEEPING, rearing young, and HIBERNATING. The average groundhog has been estimated to move approximately 1 m3 (35 cu ft), or 320 kg (710 lb), of dirt when digging a burrow."

See? Not a bloody thing about being able to predict the weather. No doppler RADAR in my music room, no supercomputers in my natatorium, no maps of the U.S. with smiley suns and frowny clouds. (Yeah, I know, there’s a section about me and Groundhog’s Day, but bear in mind: 1) It is Wikipedia, so any yahoo can post anything he pleases. 2) It is mentioned in the same section as the stupid tongue-twister about “woodchucks chucking wood”. And the answer is, I have never chucked so much as a toothpick in my entire life).

So why, why for the sake of all that is sane and rational do you people expect me to predict your weather? I could understand yanking my keister out of bed to help you dig a foundation for your house, or run a new line to your septic tank, but WHY ask ME to predict the weather? Do you call in a plumber to cast your horoscope? And for Jeebus’ sake, it’s the 21st century, don’t you have anything more modern and scientific than waving a large rodent around as a means for predicting the weather? Just because you saw it in a Walt Disney nature movie doesn’t make it true (my friends the lemmings had a REAL problem with that jackass.)

How stupid are you people?

Wrong question, I know — Stupid enough to believe that I can predict the weather, obviously.

OK, let me ask you another question. Assume you are me. Assume you are sleeping peacefully and you suddenly find yourself with a severe case of whiplash and staring at a group allegedly representing the pinnacle of evolution of the family Hominidae. Now imagine you know what the weather will be for the next six weeks. Now, ask yourself a question: Do you intend to share this information with these genetic defects?

Hell no. And if you can bite one of them, so much the better.

Can I ask another question? Where the Hell is PETA while this is going on? And no, a bunch of anorexic hippies waving signs is not my idea of protecting me. I want a sniper in the bell tower, with a Soviet-era SVD and a Zeiss scope with side parallax adjustment, who can pick off a 350 pound chunk of adipose in a top hat at just over a mile. Anything less than this doesn’t do me a damn bit of good.

Oh, and by the way, has anyone ever told you that Candlemas (also February 2nd) is a High Holy Day to groundhogs? Where the Hell is the Pope? Where’s the ACLU? My religious freedom is being infringed by these wankers who make me late for Vespers every freakin’ year.

Look, I know some of you think that this is a really neat tradition, and better yet, it makes some folks a truckload of money — not that I have ever seen a single dime and yes Bill Murray I am looking at you (note to self: Fire agent). But look, could you start a new tradition? How about Mel Gibson Day? You run down to Mel Gibson’s mansion once a year and yank him out of bed at 8:00 AM. If he’s drunk and raving about “Jews” and “Sugar Tits”, that means he’s good for another three movies and will divorce his current wife. Better yet, you could gut him and read his entrails. That was all the rage for predicting the future back in the day. You folks have dozens of celebrities and politicians singularly worthy of this honor, which would allow you to let sleeping Sciuridae lie.

Is that too much to ask?

Yes?

OK, no more Mister Nice Hog. Next dickweed who wakes me up before April 15th (when I have to get up and file my taxes) will find me boring through their eye socket and finishing my nap in their very empty braincase. Capisce?

Oh — And my name is Carl, not Phil.