The Groundhog can F*ck Himself

I was kind of in on Groundhogs Day this year. Or, I at least declared I was gonna start getting more hyped about the Holiday. January is an extremely brutal month and beginning days of February often carry the same energy until you reach Super Bowl weekend. In an effort to find some joy in the darkness, going all in on a typically considered mid-holiday seemed like a good place to start. I may need to reconsider.

Because here we are. Officially in spring. Yet I don’t even need to check the weather app to know that today will feel exactly the same as it did six weeks ago.

And it’s all thanks to that smug, overfed, furry fraud — Punxsutawney Phil.

This dude has an entire day dedicated to him. A literal global stage. People gather, cameras roll, the world collectively turns to a groundhog for guidance. And what does he do with this once-a-year opportunity?

Does he bring hope? Does he offer a shred of encouragement to get us through the final dregs of winter? Does he use his platform for good?

No.

Instead, this self-important, weather-manipulating rodent crawls out of his little burrow, rubs his beady little eyes, and chooses violence.

“Oh, look at me, I see my shadow. Guess you all have to suffer a little longer. Too bad, so sad.”

It does not have to be this way.

If Phil wanted to guarantee an early spring, he could. Easily.

• Throw up some industrial floodlights around his burrow—no shadows, no problem.

• Stretch a giant tarp over the area to block any direct sunlight.

• Get a fog machine in there…boom… light diffusion, no shadows.

• Have people (or even cardboard cutouts) stand around him, absorbing any light that dares try to cast darkness.

• Or, hear me out… he could just stay underground and call in sick.

Listen, I know these ideas aren’t groundbreaking, but I’m trying here. The guy has an entire infrastructure built around his existence. You’re telling me he doesn’t have a team that can brainstorm a few better solutions?

And don’t tell me the tradition would be ruined if he just predicted early spring every year. We’d still tune in! Especially if he came out, stood on his little stump, and gave us some motivational words to power through the last weeks of winter.

But no. Phil doesn’t care about us.

He thrives on our misery. He delights in our despair. He wakes up, looks us in the eyes, and says, “Nah, you’re not done suffering yet.”

Well, I am done. I’m done with winter. And I am so done with that furry little scumbag.