Punxsutawney Madness

I don't think I've ever felt sorrier for a poor animal than Punxsutawney Phil. I hate being woken up my by radio-clock with the inane morning banter annoucing the glorious start of another workday. So I can only imagine my ire at being in Phil's position. Sleeping, all nestled in a warm comfy bed, only to be rudely manhandled by a pair leathered hands (the leather possibly belonging to a distant cousin), yanked thusly out of said bed by some goober with a nose so red he'd either been on the Bozo the Clown show recently or a 3-day bender. Then, hoisted high and above in the cold cold air and paraded before a crowd of photo-flashing mentally-challenged people who still indulge in some arcane German tradition that should have died with the last Kaiser. I would have one of two thoughts and I suspect Phil did too:

#1 "I'm going kill you all..."

Failing that...

#2 A heartfelt prayer that some Jimbo Jones-type hunter would scream "It's comin' right for us!" and put a bullet in me to end the madness, preferrably with my spraying blood carrying some virulent and heretofore unknown rodent-plague, thus satisfying thought #1. A two-fer.