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Posts Tagged ‘Groundhog Day’

Move over Steinbeck, I have a few words of my own.

It is probably–at least partially–my own fault for having faith in a little varmint from Punxsutawney.  The little rodent predicted an early spring this year.  Let’s be perfectly honest here . . . Phil has as much chance of correctly predicting the weather as the guys with degrees in meteorology and millions of dollars worth of radar equipment.  And Phil does it for free.

And I desperately wanted the worthless little furball to be right this time.

groundhogday

You see, I hate winter.

Winter comes with all the predictability and compassion of an unwanted season.  It is the last primordial vestige of the Ice Age (perhaps the only era in history worse than the Dark Age of Middle Age) and an annual reminder that Mother Nature can be less than a lady.

I do not like winter.  I like it not one little bit.  I do not like the cold.  I do not like it here or there.  I do not like it anywhere.  Wait a minute.  Strike that.  I do like winter in Hawaii.  But I digress.

I do not ice skate.  I do not ski—the thought of hurdling down the side of the mountain on a couple of bed slats doesn’t appeal to me somehow.  And don’t even have the gall to ask about cross-country skiing—that’s just stupid.  Why would any sane individual strap boards to their feet to walk from here to there?  I don’t fish in good weather, so ice fishing would be even more stupid than it sounds.  I used to sled as a kid, but as an adult, the hill going down has gotten far too short, and the hill going back up has gotten far too high.  I’m having angina just typing about it.  Excuse me, it was just gas.

So tonight it is snowing again.  The ground is white.  Some idiots would call it a winter wonderland . . . please!  This is Hell and it is freezing over.

Snow serves no useful purpose.  Rain at least waters things.  Life could not exist without rain.  Even plants in a desert have to get some water eventually.  But nothing grows in snow.  Look at a picture of Antarctica or the North Pole.  Or my backyard.  There is no moss on glaciers.  Ice kills.  No one in America besides me knows how to drive a car anyway.  You take your life into your hands just driving on a sunny day with a visibility of five miles.  Throw in a white-out and some slush in the passing lane and you’ve got a concoction that would make Dr. Kevorkian smile.

And after it snows, we have to move it.  We have to shovel it off our walks.  It snows again.  We shovel again–hoo what fun!   We’re like modern day Sisyphus’s shoveling, blowing and plowing as the snow continues falling, blowing, and cloning before we’ve even finished.  And then that jerk with the snowplow comes along and shoves more in my driveway before I even get back in the house.  He knows I love winter.  He knows I just love being in the great outdoors.  He knows when we are sleeping, and he knows when we’ve just cleared the end of our driveways.  He’s a moron and I may kill him if I get the chance.

No one calls this FUN!

No one calls this FUN!

Have you noticed that they never complain about global warming in the winter?

And deep inside my head, one of those many voices calls out.  “Why don’t you move south you idiot?”

I ponder this but momentarily.  This is my home and I will defend it from the elements for as long as I live, or until I retire, whichever comes first.  I do fear that I will die with a snow shovel in my cold, dead grip.

I have no more sense than a lemming and fewer cents in my pocket.

Why build a home in a flood plain?  Poor planning.

What causes food poisoning?  Home canning.

What’s worse than nails drug across a chalkboard?  Anything sung by Carol Channing.

Where am I going with this?

I do not know.  But I have miles to go and snow to throw.

All work and no play make me a dull boy.

All work and no play make me a dull boy.

shiningice

All work and no play make me a dull boy—a dull boy, discontent with winter.

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Where were you when you first heard the news of the assassination?  Sipping coffee at work, or curled up on the sofa splitting time between The Ladies’ Home Journal and The View on the TV?  Or, were you in your car, hearing the ghastly report after your favorite song was interrupted on the Classic Rock station.

You haven’t heard about this heinous crime?  You heard it (or rather read it) here first?!

Well, you just know it had to happen sooner or later.  The victim never had a chance.

Bill Murray reports in "Groundhog Day"

It was a cold, blustery day in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, when our hero rose from his bed to cast his annual prediction (“spring will come, sooner or later.”)  Little did he know the fate that awaited his beady little varmint eyes.

After all, he lived in a state with one of the highest ratios of hunters to residents.  NRA members outnumber Mensa members nearly six to one.  (It’s probably much higher than that, but a non-Mensa hunter generated the statistics.)  Phil had made a few enemies over the years, predicting six more weeks of cold weather instead of an early thaw.  This all added up to several million armed, mentally challenged suspects with a motive.  Poor, scurvy little rat.

Authorities now believe that Phil was actually struck down with two separate gunshots.  Instant replays of the massacre distinctly show his little fur-ball head being thrown in two different directions.  Over and back.  Over and back.  Over and back.  The replay is currently being shown on CNN continuously.  Over and back.

Two shots.  Definitely two assassins.

Dead rodents see no shadows.

Ballistic experts (not the weather experts that went ballistic when their best source of meteorological information went down in a pool of blood and shredded silk top hat) have determined that one of the bullets came from a snowy knoll, just south of Gobbler’s Knob.  This was probably the fatal wound.

A second rifle was allegedly fired from the second floor of the adult bookstore across the street.  L. Harvey Osmond was captured fleeing the scene.  Actually, he stopped to check out the new selection of sex toys, and was caught in the act.  Investigators have sealed the crime scene and are working long hours into the night examining evidence at the store.

Osmond’s .22 rifle has been confiscated, and he is currently out on bail.  Ironically, it turns out that he has a valid hunting license and ground hogs are currently in season.  He has been charged with firing a rifle in a public place and his license to kill has been suspended.  (He will retain his muzzle-loader, bow and arrow, and slingshot licenses.)  Members of the Inner Circle have filed charges against Osmond claiming that although Phil was just a rodent-in-season, he was still “one of the guys” and deserved better than that.  They are demanding compensation for pain and suffering, not to exceed fifty million dollars.  Several Inner Circle members have also submitted cleaning bills for the blood spattered on their tuxedos, and the cost of replacing Phil has been estimated at about twenty dollars.

In a quirky twist of fate, Osmond was run-down and killed outside the courthouse by an unknown taxi driver.  Punxsutawney only has one taxi, so authorities are searching tonight for one Jack Diamond, the only taxi driver in the greater downtown area.

Anyone who has information regarding the mysterious assassin on the snowy knoll will be hunted down and meet their maker in a most painful manner.

And in good news, the Third Church of the Most Virgin Lady has announced that the potluck supper for this Saturday will be held after all.  A “meaty” stew has been donated for the cause.

HAPPY GROUNDHOG DAY!

Editor’s Note:  No groundhogs, taxi drivers or adult stores were injured in the writing of this fiction.  This tale has been reprinted from my archives and was originally written by me in 2003.

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