Punxsutawney Phil (whose full name, for the record, is Punxsutawney Phil, Seer of Seers, Sage of Sages, Prognosticator of Prognosticators and Weather Prophet Extraordinary) has been predicting the weather since Groundhog Day began in 1886. His predictions are simple and straightforward: It's either six more weeks of winter, or we're looking at an early spring.
As a forecaster, it's all very heads-or-tails with Phil. There's no grey area. I'm not sure where he got his degree in weathering, but that's not the kind of question you ask a groundhog that's 129 years old. Plus, in a world of "It's 101 degrees outside, but it feels like 106," you've gotta respect his no bullshit strategy. Either the dude sees his shadow and that means winter is sticking around some more, or he doesn't see his shadow and we're all gonna get to go swimming next week. Option C is there's no Option C, you dick heads. Punxsutawney Phil is not only a badass, his name is the most fun thing you'll say all day. (Related: How is Punxsutawney Phil not the number one baby name of 2015 yet? You people with newborns are failing.)
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This year, Punxsutawney saw his shadow. So, that means six more weeks of winter.
And in Dallas, that means six more weeks of Dallasites complaining about how cold it is outside when it's not even cold. "Ugh! (shivering) Can you believe it's 55 degrees?? It's freezing." No. No, it is not at all freezing.
Six more weeks of girls wearing She-Ra boots and Hans Solo vests and Indiana Jones hats (Note: ladies, do not add Top Gun Maverick aviators to this look. It's too many heroes.) Forty-two days of your lunchmates spending half your lunch hour debating whether or not it's warm enough to sit out on the patio. "It's cold, but there are heaters. And it's sunny. But it's windy. And I forgot my infinity scarf. But, I have my fingerless robber gloves. And the pizza is hot, so it could warm us up. But ... " (AAAAHGAWDMAKEITSTOP You stab yourself to death with a hip, decorative paper straw. On the patio. Which, as it turns out, is perfectly lovely temperature-wise.) Six more weeks of children hoping for a snow day that will never come because Texas. Six more weeks of those awful fucking UGGs, dammit.
Hold on, Dallas. Just hold on six more weeks, and the Dallas Magic Months will be here. The months we're good at. The months we're made for. The months that make sense to our genetic code. They're just around the corner. You can make it. Until then, seek shelter. And stop posting pictures of the current temperature in your car on Facebook. And name all your babies Punxsutawney.