Batesville Bob paused at his burrow entrance.

“Phuck Punxsutawney Phil’s pathetic prognosticating. He couldn’t pour pee out of a boot if the instructions were on the heel.”

“I’ve been to Groundhog Meteorology University. Studied weather patterns diligently. But does Batesville have a festival honoring me? Noooooo! Those silly humans would rather rely on a perpetually puzzled Pennsylvania poltroon who flees his own ‘oracular’ optical occlusion!”

“I’m not a media whore. I’ll pop up, accurately assess the ambient environment, and predict the end of winter.”

BANG!!

Batesville Bob’s brains bounced bloodily beside the burrow.

Smallholder expelled the cartridge. “Damn rodent.”