Pacing in his underground lair, Punxsutawney Phil flashed a cold grin to the skies this week as the cruel reign of winter continued. “I said this would happen,” sneered the power-hungry rodent. “I saw my shadow etched on the ground like the coffee stains of fate, and I declared: winter will last for 6 MORE WEEKS. But you didn’t believe me, did you?”
Howling gales shook the cave as the groundhog listed off humanity’s offenses: early donning of tank tops and short shorts, staying outside past 7:30, and Instagram beach pics without regretful “OMG wish I were back there” captions. Gnashing his gnarled teeth, Phil snapped that endless snowstorms were exactly what we deserved for failing to heed his grave omens.
In response to the frozen terror, several hundred cults revering Punxsutawney Phil as a wrathful deity have sprouted in the American heartlands.
“His prophecies are absolute, his will as fierce as a polar bear off its meds,” spoke Father Grimsly at a sermon in Mt. Bedford, WY. “Until we repent our arrogance, our driveways shall remain snow-blocked, our grocery stores shall be forever packed with panicky housewives, and no measure of salt shall ever thaw the iPhone my son left out in the sleet.”
“His demands are simple. All his High Hogginess desires is to be given the tribute he has earned- a bucket of corn, a small harem of groundhogettes, a warren beside the Champs-Elysee. A small price to pay for warning us of the harrowing cold cutting through to my marrow right now.”
Rising from the earth to greet his legions of fearful acolytes, Phil swept his claws up to the sky and emitted a series of high-pitched squeaks, which his handlers translated to a deep, booming bout of grisly laughter.
“Hail the Hog of Ground and Sky” intoned the High Council of Phil, lifting the pernicious rodent onto his silken palanquin. “Hail! To the coming of one more week of winter!”
Drunk people say the darndest things: