Groundh0g Day Massacre

So nothing too exciting happening. Yesterday I went jogging on the trail. A few parts of the trail run parallel to traffic which provides ample opportunities for guys in cars to shout at me since I must look so awesome after jogging for miles and miles in the 90 degree sun and since women just totally love it when guys shout at them from moving cars. The following give a sampling of some of the comments that I received. Sadly, no profanity was involved yesterday.


* Howdy! (repeated 3 times from a guy in a truck.

* A very Joey Tribiani-esque ďHey, how you doin?Ē

* Random shouts and horns honking


Very heavy sigh.


So last night at the bar (gee, Kimberly a lot of your stories start out that way? So what? Shut up! Wait, who said that?). Okay, so last night at A bar, people were sharing most interesting scar stories and I knew that was a contest that I could easily win. Iíve already shared my spatula-related scar story, so now itís time for my groundh0g scar story. Yeah, thatís right, I said groundh0g and I meant groundhog. So letís travel in the way back machine to the year 1982, Groundhog Day.


So Iím at the grocery store with my stepmother when she sends me off to pick up a gallon of milk. As Iím trying to pick out the perfect milk jug, with the blue colored cap (2%) and the perfect expiration date, Iím suddenly distracted by a display at the end of the aisle. If you guessed groundh0g, pin a rose on your nose. Ah, but itís not just any groundhog, it was a rare albino groundh0g, a rare albino groundh0g named Gary that for only $5 I could have my picture taken with. Woo hoo! I decide that I MUST have that photo and try to explain the importance of this once in a lifetime opportunity to my stepmother who sadly seems only interested in the milk I have forgotten. No problem, I just whine, plead, and beg my way through the next three aisles, finally ending with the, ďand Iíll never ask for anything ever again if you just get me this!Ē She caves and we head back to the end of aisle number four. Stay with me here, it only gets more exciting.


So now I get my first really good look at Gary the Groundh0g, and well, he isnít pretty, he's just not. First, heís got that whole freaky albino thing going on and second, he smells vaguely like urine, and not in a good way. Oh right, there is no good way. Lastly, his fur is kind of yellow, which could possibly explain the urine smell. Too late, my stepmother has already paid the man his five bucks, and Iím being hoisted up on a stool, while Gary is being pulled out of the cage. The idea was to prop Gary up by my shoulder while Camera Dude crouches below and pushes the flash camera activator switch. Good plan. Except I decide that Gary, although gross and disgusting, looks scared and that it would be a good idea to pet him, you know, to calm his nerves. Such the bad idea. Gary freaked, making this little horrible groundh0g sound and vaulted off my shoulder to the floor, tearing a fair amount of skin off my shoulder in the process. Things get fuzzy at this point so try to keep up.


So I decide to start screaming because of all the blood and also because Iím a screamer. What? Anyhow, Gary decides that this is his big break, his one chance for freedom, since heís heading towards the checkout lanes. However, the years of confinement and the fluorescent lights must have been conspiring against him, because his daring escape looks more like a drunken slow motion stagger. By this time, people have noticed the screaming bloody little girl at the end of aisle 4 and are scurrying to try to trap the evil yet disoriented groundh0g. One ingenuous employee decided to grab a fire extinguisher. Apparently the phrase ďuse in case of emergencyĒ took on a whole meaning for this Gomer.


So long story short (too late), Gary the Groundh0g ended up being bludgeoned to death right there in the cereal aisle. A small crowd gathered around the bloodied yellow carcass and observed a moment of silence. That is until the sobbing started. That would have been Camera Dude, no doubt realizing that he was not going to get anywhere near the $5 for photos with a dead crushed skull groundh0g as he was raking in with a live, albeit stinky, groundh0g.


So thereís probably a lesson there somewhere. Hell if I know what it is. Wait, maybe itís that groundh0gs donít belong in the supermarket at the end of the cereal aisle. Wal-Mart, maybe, but a supermarket, no. We never went back to that grocery store after that day, and also we never referred to the ďgroundh0g incidentĒ in our household again. Luckily, I no longer have nightmares involving hearing the squishy, crunchy sound of Gary Groundh0g's skull connecting with the fire extinguisher.


So I have some other interesting scar stories. One involves an ex-boyfriend, a phone, and a cat. Another involves a job I had delivering fruitbaskets on rollerskates, a plate glass door, and a guy named Elbert. Intrigued yet? Ah well, it will all just have to wait for another day.


2002-06-20 at 10:45 a.m.