Groundhog's honor

There's no sense in trying to corrupt the incorruptible. No sense in trying to buy what's not for sale. So try as you might, you can’t bribe yourself into an early spring:

Punxsutawney Phil is not accepting PayPal, AmexGold or even plain hard (frozen hard) cash. With our own local New York groundhogs, it could be a different story: Malverne Mel may be malleable, Holbrook Hal may be hedgy and Staten Island Chuck may be swayed by New York City politics, but deep in the heart of rural Pennsylvania where Groundhog Day has its deepest roots, Phil’s going to tell it like it is. If he turns a cold shoulder to your misery, well, that’s his job.

Our nation’s prognosticating rodent is no Polar Pete, he’s no Vortex Vinnie, no Arctic Artie. Phil's the latest in a long line of prediction professionals, proud of the heritage that puts him in the spotlight, and out of the shadows, for one day each year.

What? You’d rather swap him out for Scrat, the prehistoric cartoon squirrel from the hit “Ice Age” films? After all, gregarious, undaunted Scrat not only could foresee the weather that lay ahead of the world, he then went out and actually caused it, and simply by pursuing the beloved acorn of his dreams, he changed the shape of entire continents.

Ah, if only it were that easy. But Phil, you see, is going to keep this game honest. He’ll declare his weather decision at the break of dawn and hours later, that very same day, he’ll decline to offer cold calculations on the Super Bowl. In fact, he’ll probably sleep right through it because spring’s own kickoff is the only one he cares about and that’s still a few weeks away.

You see, Phil is so downright upright that, even when he's curled up in happy hibernation 4 or 5 feet below, he's still a stand-up guy.

Justice for Puxsutawney Phil

Punxsutawney Phil emerged from his burrow last month but he's finding himself in an even bigger hole now: He is at the top of the list on America's Most Wanted. The prognosticating groundhog has been charged with perpetration of meteorological fraud, plotting to obliterate the vernal equinox and deliberately trying to snow the public.

In fact, the brazenly wintry mixes in the weeks following Phil’s February forecast for spring has left most folks feeling frosted.

There's no shadow of doubt: this woodchuck has enemies, and plenty of them. Someone's looking to put him on ice. Permanently.

What’s a renegade rodent to do? There is always the federal Woodchuck Protection Program. Let the Department of Justice cloak Phil in a new coat of fur, devise a new identity, and pair him with a career counselor to re-engineer his skills. By bringing his talents up to 21st century levels, Phil can cast off that 17th century mumbo jumbo that reflects the Druids and their devout Groundhoggisms, all those out-of-date practices that got the poor fellow into this meteorological mess in the first place.

Surrender, Phil: In an age of weather satellites and weather apps, the only answer is to give yourself up while there’s still time. Your best efforts have already been outsourced to technology, Satellites do it better from the sky than you could ever do on the ground (or below it).

Besides, now there’s a price on your head.

Would a new career be so bad? Insider information tells us there’s going to be an opening soon for another important seasonal post, a spot that is guaranteed to make you as loved and cherished as Santa Claus: It seems the Easter bunny is in contract for a condo in Boca Raton and anticipates retiring in just a few weeks to a life of golfing, shopping and playing poker. It might take a little surgery (well, your ears were always way too small anyway), and a few Zumba lessons to teach you how to hop, but this might end up being a nice fit.

Punxsutawney Phil, the Easter Woodchuck: now there's a good egg everyone can love.

Weathering Phil's prediction

Now is the winter of our discontent.

Or at least of our discord.

The extended frigid season doesn’t stand a shadow of a chance of lasting too long, according to predictions delivered today in Punxsutawney, Pa.

Phil, the nation’s official groundhog has spoken – if not in the traditional verbal sense, at least through his body language. Neither he nor urban cousin Staten Island Chuck glimpsed the outline of their sleepy, corpulent forms lurking in the shadows beneath the glare of national publicity.

On Long Island, however, Malverne Mel and Holtsville Hal beg to differ – and trust me, groundhogs don’t take an especially sanguine approach to begging. Thrust from their cozy, frostbound snoozes into the spotlight of our selfish curiousity, the suburban pair saw no climate change, at least not for at least six more weeks.

Groundhogs don’t have their acts together this year, and that’s a bit disconcerting. Lack of such species consensus can readily lead into more dangerous territory: Imagine soon a split among their ranks, for instance, into Republicans and Democrats. (We already know those parties don’t see eye-to-eye on anything, especially climate change.) From there it could lead to a religious uprising, with fundamentalist and New Age groundhogs debating the merits of prognostication, hibernation and even eternal damnation.

So let’s hope for an intervention – and fast. Some kind of mediator should be able to help the groundhogs get their acts together again.

Frankly, the alternative leaves us cold.