Dear Mr. Groundhog, sir:

I understand today is your big day, the one day of the whole year when you actually matter, when people actually remember that the word "groundhog" does in fact belong to the English language. For you, today must feel like Christmas, your birthday, and maybe Arbor Day, all rolled into one. I feel that I can understand any excitement and perhaps any misgivings you might have about your responsibilities.

Therefore, I wish you the best of luck in your endeavor on this fine February day.

I do feel a certain duty to inform you that, should you decide to emerge from your warm little hole in the ground and see your shadow, I will follow you back into your hole and, once I catch you, I promise to shove the very cold metallic end of a thermometer up your ass.

If I appear to attempt intimidation, please accept my humble apology. But let us establish one thing clearly: you live in a nice warm hole in the ground. I live in a currently barren cornfield where the wind whips unmolested across the plains and steals my body heat from under my heavy coat. Lately I have woken up wondering just how quickly my boogers will freeze when I step outside. The cold has so tortured us cornfield dwellers that last night, when I stepped outside to a 30 degree temperature, I half considered taking off my jacket and walking to the store in my t-shirt. It felt like summer at that point. Meanwhile, you sit in your hole and wait for something to do. And you let your own shadow scare you.

So please, show some balls today, Mr. Groundhog. I know I speak for others when I say that pleasant news of your emergence today will greatly cheer our spirits.

Hose C. Monster