Dear Mr. Groundhog,

it's a nice little scam you've gotten going, i admit. but i have your toothy little number.

saw your shadow today? bullshit. the sky is a gray sheet this morning, matching the gray of slush on the ground, with nary the daystar to be seen. unless you're vacationing in Vegas or see your shadow in any sort of weather other than the utter blackness of midnight, it's freaking cloudy out today.

but i have your number -- the contest is fixed. it's always six more fucking weeks of winter. that's right. know why? because it's six weeks to the fucking equinox, when astronomical spring begins.

you are merely an excuse for the residents of a backwater town to get together, wear top hats and groundhog costumes, and drink themselves silly at dawn, before settling down to a day of Billy Crystal movies. as if anyone really needs an excuse to partake of any of those activities.

much love,
kwannon

p.s. if i see you in my garden again this year, i'll pop a cap in your ass.