I have always enjoyed Groundhog Day.  It is somehow delightfully ironic and quaint, kind of like a salt and vinegar potato chip.  Just a regular boring potato chip…but it’s got that zing that makes your tastebuds sit up straighter.  Groundhog Day pokes the tastebuds of my brain. 

However, as I was driving to work this morning, meditating on the greater meaning of Groundhog Day, I was suddenly attacked by a case of paranoia and suspicion.  There are some things that just don’t add up. 

Let’s start with a bit of background.  It is said that on February 2, the groundhog emerges from his burrow and looks around.  If he can see his shadow on the ground, it means six more weeks of winter.  If he doesn’t see his shadow, it means spring will come early.  The most famous of these groundhogs is Punxsutawney Phil, who resides (oddly enough) in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania.

Allow me to point out a few potential problems.

First of all, what makes Pennsylvania the center of weather determination.  I live in Ohio, where winter is just as crummy, and it has been cloudy all morning.  Does the groundhog have to be in PA for it to be accurate?

Second, how does the overgrown hairball know when February 2^nd is?  Is it a simple matter of a professional groundhog taking pride in his work and considering this an honorable duty, and therefore setting a groundhog alarm clock?  Or maybe it is a natural occurrence, where somewhere deep in the genetic code of the groundhog, is a strand of DNA marked “wake master up on February 2^nd.”  Or, (and I think this is far more likely) what we have is one shifty-looking character who gets up at four in the morning, sneaks past the media to ol’ Punxsutawney Phil’s burrow, and pokes him with a stick until he wakes up.  Then he cleverly blocks Phil from leaving the burrow by putting his stick in front of the entrance and leaning on it casually and nonchalantly, as if to say, “Hey dudes…just me…hanging out with my main man Punx.  What?  Who’s Punx?  Oh, that’s what I call him.  We’re tight like that.”  Then, as the fanfare plays, and people await the event with the misty veil of tears in their eyes, he just deftly grabs his stick, gives it a few nonchalant twirls, and disappears into the throng.  Punxie then does what any self-respecting mammal should do when rudely awakened by a poking stick.  He rushes out and looks for someone to bite.  Blinded by the flash of a million cameras and deafened by thousands of shrill children informing their parents that they HAVE to go to the bathroom now, and NO, they CAN’T wait, Punxie just looks around disdainfully and crawls back to his burrow for a hot toddy and a good nap.

Or maybe we’ve been looking at this the wrong way from the beginning.  Maybe the groundhog DOESN’T predict the weather.  Maybe he CAUSES it.  Groundhogs are mystical things, people.  I could easily see them being part of a hateful secret cult of snow-mongerers.

Whatever the case is…it doesn’t seem to matter.  The National Climatic Data Center only gives groundhogs a 39% accuracy rating anyway.  Which is pretty sad, considering that they have a 50-50 chance of being right.