BY JACK LALANNE, THE GODFATHER OF FITNESS: Punxsutawney Phil has been packing on the pounds lately, and it’s hard not to notice. Like millions of Americans, his weight has spiraled out of control.It’s evident that those who celebrate Phil’s annual emergence from his no-doubt expanding hole in the ground are the very ones guilty of forcing him into their own pot-bellied molds they‘ve made for themselves.
Every February 2, thousands of revelers gather to eat and drink in excess -- not coincidentally, at a venue where the name even encourages over-consumption, Gobbler’s Knob.
Let’s face it: the rest of the year, nobody gives a doggone about Phil -- or his cholesterol, for that matter. We parade him around as some mystical prognosticator for a few fleeting moments, objectifying his fat, furry ass, but then we leave him to his own devices for the remainder of the year, during which time he does nothing but sleep in his burrow for months on end, unmotivated and no doubt depressed after a brief summer of gluttonous eating.
And what do you think happens to all of that food? It’s turned into fat, that's what. Believe me, I know -- after all, I'm 92-year old Jack Lalanne, the godfather of fitness. Is this the kind of example we want to set for our kids or, for that matter, other groundhogs?
Phil's sedentary lifestyle cannot continue or he'll surely meet a premature death. And diet pills are only a temporary salve, not a solution.
Phil needs to start walking, and it’s about time those pudgy men in funny hats take responsibility for what they’ve done. Phil is not “big-boned.” Just because he’s called a groundhog doesn’t mean he has to look like one, dammit.
It’s time we consider renaming the hallowed grounds of Gobbler's Knob to Nibbler’s Knoll, and eating rice cakes. And maybe get Phil one of those wheels that hamsters use for exercise before the gluttonous pig kills himself.
