I don't understand all this horseshit about the groundhog...

Apparently, today was some sort of bizarre pagan holiday in
which meteorological data are gleaned from the behavior of
a large rodent rather than from jet-stream patterns, climate
trends, and Bush Administration policies. I have no time for
any of this. If people want to pretend they’re interested in
some lower mammal’s weather predictions, that’s fine, just
don’t trouble me with it. You know what poor Puxatawney
Phil is probably thinking? He’s thinking, “Who are all these
weird jackasses in old-timey costumes? Why are all those
people taking pictures of me? Aaaaaaah! Go away! Go
away, creepy humans! You’ve destroyed my ecosystem, why
why why can’t you at least leave me my dignity!”

I mean, if it’s cute that some overgrown squirrel can suppos-
edly tell us how long winter will be, why isn’t it cute when I
pick out my outfit for the day based on how many times my
mother’s cats threw up the night before? One for the all-black
ensemble, two for the grey-sweater/black-pants look, three
for the black-shirt/blue jeans combo, and so on and so forth.
I’ll bet you anything my mom’s cats know more about fashion
than that groundhog knows about the weather. Here’s how
the routine goes every single morning.

TELEPHONE: Ring...ring...ring

MY MOTHER: Hello?

ME: Hi, mom. How many was it?

MY MOTHER: Oh, it was two. Two big ones, but two...

ME: Great! I don’t have to do laundry!

MY MOTHER: When are you coming over to visit?

ME: Gotta go, bye mom!

TELEPHONE: Click!

And there you go, my own little Groundhog Day every single
day of the week. But do I make a big deal about it? No, I
don’t. Not like you people and your rat meteorologist. You
frighten me. You really do.

You should get some help.