F U, Phil

We live in a magical world in which a meteorologist can base their predictions of weather patterns on a rodent (that, on one day each year, is wrestled out of a cage in front of junior reporters at dawn and expected to divine whether or not six more weeks of winter is in store) and still receive a paycheck.

Punxsutawney Phil didn't see his shadow this morning, heralding an early Spring. Well guess what? It was fucking cloudy today. Phil didn't see his shadow? Well it must be because Spring is on it's way, because no way does the fact that the sun wasn't out have any bearing on the mind-blowing capabilities of a buck-tooth, ground-dwelling rat to let our civilized culture in on the confusing and undocumented secrets that are cold fronts and barometric pressure.

In an ideal world, the local weatherman would leave work in a 1987 Nissan Stanza to go to the Motel 6 he calls home, eat a couple of ham & cheese Hot Pockets, then drown himself in a bottle of cheap whiskey, listening old Willie Nelson tunes and drunk dialing his ex-wife and her precious new husband, Derek.

And Punxsutawney Phil would be some family's dinner in Mississippi.