The little rodent has but one job. One small task to do, one time a year. And he can’t even do that right. What job in the world could be cushier? And he gets free room and board, as well as a day of hoopla all in his honor.
I’ve never believed in the stupid tradition of using a groundhog to predict the weather.
Why? Because of the overwhelming chance for human error. And it would appear I was proven right. An article in today’s paper revealed that his handler has stepped up and taken the blame for misreading Phil’s prediction. Now, it appears, we’ll never know what Phil saw on that fateful morning.
Looking out a yet another dreary, Erie day, I’m in a righteous frame of mind and looking for blood. Angry? Yes.
It’s not enough to yell at the sky, fist in air. The anger has to go somewhere. Someone has to pay. If you ask me, it’s time to get a new prognosticator. Fire, or maybe even, retire Phil. Offer him a severance package he can’t refuse and bring in some new blood. Follow the lead of the Vatican. Out with the old, in with the new.
Let’s get back to business and close the door on this wretched winter by show Mother Nature we’re serious and willing to do what needs to be done.