Once upon a time, an alarm clock rang in a tiny burrow near a city in the deep South. The noise penetrated the slumbering psyche of a small groundhog. For several minutes, dreams and wakefulness struggled for control, but gradually the groundhog overcame sleep and rose in his bed, rubbing his eyes and pondering the noise thoughtfully.
Then in a flash of recognition, he sprang awake.
February 2! Groundhog Day! His day. His day of celebrity, the day on which he got his place in the sun–or in the shade, as it sometimes happened.
The groundhog carefully groomed his whiskers, smoothed his fur, and tentatively approached the door of his burrow. He opened it, bracing for the inevitable cheers.
SLAM! He was blasted backward by a wind tinged with Arctic chill. The groundhog looked at the thermometer. He froze. Literally. It was 15 degrees. Two degrees with the windchill factor.
The groundhog stood there in disbelief.
$@^%^%&!” said the groundhog.
“*#@#&#&*!” said the groundhog.
“I hate my life!” said the groundhog.
He stumbled back into his burrow. He slammed the door. He crawled back under his quilt.
And then he unplugged the alarm clock.
There were six more years of winter.
The moral of the story: I want to move to Hawaii. Now.