Last week a conspiracy of such diabolical magnitude was unleashed upon the world, I hesitate to delve into it. What will happen to me? Will my family’s safety be in harm’s way should I continue down the muckrakers path?
What is my theory, that which has me a-shake?
You may have heard about February 2’s weather prognostications in Oxford, Michigan. If not, here’s the Readers? Digest version: Since 1999, Oxford has experienced marmots, camelids and puppets taking shots at predicting spring’s arrival. It takes place right there in the middle of civilization’s apex — commonly referred to as the gazebo in Centennial Park. Each of these critters has looked for his shadow: If he sees it, Spring is still six weeks away; if there is no shadow, Spring will soon be sprung.
That’s the set up, from here on out things get a little dicey.
I don’t have all the proof yet, but this year I say the prediction was rigged. The fix was in. Something smelled in Denmark.
As the fury little marmot Harley made his way to the forefront, my Spidy-sense started to tingle. The sun shone bright in the sky. All the wee little children’s faces were rosy and red. Despite the obvious outcome (Harley would see his shadow and spring would still be six weeks out) there was merriment in the cool, crisp air. The moment we had waited for was upon us.
Then Harley spoke, whistling a little bit with every ‘s? word. ‘I s-s-see . . .? the crowd of hundreds was silent, ? . . . no s-s-shadow.?
No shadow?
No shadow? How can it be that you cast no shadow on such a sunny day? What are you, Harley, one of the undead, rising up from your earthen grave once a year? Like a vampire casts no reflection, do undead woodchucks cast no shadow? Somebody, quick, get out the White Pages and look up VanHelsing! Grab your wooden stakes and crucifixes.
The sky was a brilliant color of blue, with only a few little, white puffy clouds; the sun was high and mighty; it was a glorious day. Folks, I am here to testify, Harley saw his shadow and lied, dang-it!
But why?
It could be he’s a part of a deep, deep, ultra-secret government agency that knows the real truth about global warming. Did they think we couldn’t handle the truth, spring was still six weeks away? Was he assigned to the weather just to pacify the masses, to divert our attention from the end of humanity as we know it?
No shadow.
No shadow and wouldn’t you know it, in a short time folks didn’t question the lie. It was said over and over and loud enough the masses believed it. No s-s-shadow. S-s-spring will soon be here.
Something is amiss and I don’t know how or why. I do know that a mere three miles north, in a sparsely attended and scarcely recognized ceremony, a lonely llama told his following he had seen his shadow. Mr. Prozac, the weather prophet, had spoken to only a few true believers — 42 llamas, a horse, a pony and a donkey, several sheep and goats, an emu, a rhea, some fallow deer, assorted turkeys and geese and five dogs.
How the mighty have fallen. Only 12 short months ago, Mr. Prozac was the main attraction in Oxford. He was the man! (Okay, the camelid.) A year before Harley rode into town, Mr. Prozac was the one riding the wave of fame and fortune.
Maybe Prozac was too honest.
Maybe Prozac couldn’t be bought.
Maybe he had to be put out to pasture.
Like I said, I don’t why or what . . . yet. If you don’t see me around in the future, I am either deep under cover on the Global Warming Front or, gulp, a goner.
* * *
Meanwhile, while driving down Oakwood Road one recent February Friday afternoon, I saw a rolly-poley skunk. He waddled his way east, along the road’s north shoulder. Skunks usually sleep in February, or so I thought.
Is spring near? It depends on who you trust.
A marmot who lies . . ?
A llama out to pasture . . ?
Or an early rising skunk . . .?
Take your pick.
Comments for that Muck-Raking Rush can be e-mailed to: dontrushmedon@charter.net