Well Sunday came, and went. Congratulations Seahawks. Woot, woot. Super Bowl Sunday has never been the hugest event in my calendar of fabulous things, but naturally I kind of paid attention just so I could watch the commercials Ė as one does.

Itís a sad, sad day when I would attest to the fact that the most entertaining part of the whole Super Bowl phenomenon was the actual football game. Iím telling you, if I was an advertiser Iíd be screaming for my $4 million back in a big hurry. What happened to the funny commercials, ad men on Madison Avenue?

Oh, there were a few cute ones, most notably those for Doritos which were in fact made by amateurs. The Budweiser ad with the Clydesdale and the Labrador puppy was sweet, and the Mountain Dew duck call commercial was a bit of a hoot. But otherwise it was just a very large yawn fest as far as I was concerned. I in fact finished reading my book.

So there it is, bone number one to pick on this Sunday.

Bone number two has to be aimed at our northern neighbors. No, I donít mean Iowa, I mean Canada. I would very much like all Canadians at a given signal to take a huge breath at once and suck their weather back north of the border.

As you know I really do like winter, but I think when we hit minus 25 wind chill†the other day was just a tad over the top, and the threat of snow this week, coupled with more negative temperatures is just stretching a friendship a little too tautly.

But my biggest bone has to be aimed fairly and squarely at Punxsutawney, Pa.

Iím sure the groundhog, old Punxsutawney Phil, is a nice little chap who goes along with the inanities of the human race with about as much grace as a groundhog can muster.

But I have a real problem with the logic of the whole Groundhog Day celebration. Now bear with me if you will, and take a short wander down Logic Lane with me.

If said Phil saw his shadow on said Sunday, this shrieks to me that therefore there must have been a measure of sunshine for said shadow to be cast. If it had been a gray murky, cold, dreary Sunday morning with possibly a modicum of fog thrown in, there would be no said sunshine and thus Phil would not have seen his shadow.

Are you seeing where Iím going with this? After many dreary murky winter mornings, surely the appearance of sunshine would hasten rather than hinder the coming of spring, would it not? Conversely, if Phil had poked his comely little head out on a typical blah, snowy, cloudy morning, he would have tutted to Mrs. Phil back in the burrow, muttering ďoh bugger, another six weeks of winter, stuck in Gobblerís Knob, EthelĒ.

Maybe it was a Twilight Zone Sunday Ė forgettable commercials, blowing Canadians and an illogical groundhog. And - and - heís only correct 39 percent of the time! Beam me up Scotty.

Annie Dear lives in Leeís Summit. Reach her at anniedearkc@hotmail.com