February 2.
Only the most important weather predicting day of the year.
By far, the stupidest thing on my calendar.
As far as I'm concerned, if I don't get the day off or at least some crappy gift, it ain't a holiday.
Yet some podunk, backwoods city in Pennsylvania spends the whole year prepping for this little beaver thing to schlep out of its' hole.
Ceremonies are planned, guests are invited, there's probably a tent rented, and everybody dusts off the ol' tophat.... for an event that takes about 6 seconds. Unless the little badger doesn't emerge on his own and they have to drag his furry ass out. Thus only adding to the joyful bliss of this momentous occasion.
This is a lot of pressure for a groundhog.
If he's right, they feed him for another year.
If he's wrong, I think they eat him.
Isn't that what "ground chuck" is?
Turns out that the National Climatic Data Center rates the accuracy of the bucktooth little furball at 39%.
That kinda sucks.
But it's still better than the local weatherman.
And the woodchuck doesn't have a doppler radar. No Viper 2000. No stormseeker 800. No thermometer. No nothin.
He's workin with the sun, a hole, and a cloud.
So some slack is due.
'Cause suns, holes, and clouds ain't easy to work with.
