Some of you may know Punxsutawney Phil, the tiny cute groundhog that predicts the coming of spring. He often shows up with a posse of middle-aged men in Abraham Lincoln-esque hats who read from long medieval scrolls. His whole act is just adorable. It’s certainly the first thing I’d show aliens when they visit Earth. Except, now I don’t think I should. Because in the past week, in my mind, Punxsutawney Phil has gone from fantastic Phil to phony Phil. Just like ShamWow and Trump trading cards, Punxsutawney Phil is actually a scam. As Clark Griswold from “National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation” very obviously said about Phil, he’s “a cheap, lying, no-good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, d***less, hopeless, heartless, fat-assed, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey s***.” Because this week, after Phil predicted early spring, it snowed twice. Not just once, twice. And I’m not feeling the Winter Wonderland vibe. I’m feeling hypothermic. I’m feeling angry, but I’m not feeling my hands or feet. And I’m feeling betrayed by Phil. Because he promised spring. Pinky-promised spring—though I don’t think he has fingers. And then he broke his solemn vow. Until death do us part, it was supposed to be spring and the only thing springing is the sound of my pipes cranking out heat. I’m convinced my pipes are possessed by a small dog who is digging so extensively in his backyard that he reached the center of the earth because it literally is endless clawing noises. This cacophony is all Phil’s fault.
I should have known. Phil is from Pennsylvania. A state with only two things: crazy people and Pennsyltucky. Either you live in the absolute middle of nowhere or you’re likely to be found flipping over a car after winning the Super Bowl. The only good thing to come out of Pennsylvania is Gritty, a hockey mascot with character and comically large eyes that make me afraid to sleep at night. But what was I supposed to do? Put my trust in Milltown Mel, the groundhog from New Jersey? Seriously, Jersey? Come on, Mel probably works for the Mafia and thinks bagels in New Jersey are better than bagels in New York. They’re called New York bagels for a reason. I just know Milltown Mel is embezzling money from the Groundhog Association so he can schmooze all day on the Jersey Shore with Snooki. Her hair’s so high, she’s probably hiding something, like an extra bottle of spray tan or the fact that she hates New Jersey (like all people should).
Speaking of hiding things, that’s actually something Phil’s an expert at. Because he hid the fact that he’s a lying cheat for years. He hid the fact that inside that fuzzy little head of his is actually a brain full of not water, but malice. I hope Phil has an unenjoyable long winter. I hope all of his little groundhog treats are dry and his hatted servants start a revolt against their cult leader. I’m going to have to drive to Pennsylvania to give Phil a very stern talking to. And, no, I won’t be petting his fuzzy head because when the truth isn’t met, you won’t get pet.