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The Rats Were Rodents,
Suspense & Suspicions
Notwithstanding

The purported murder of Punxsutawney Phil
was a red herring, a mere MacGuffin.  Long-
dead Hollywood citizens (all things being equal, 

e.g., sound designers, assistant directors,
ingenues, the extras from a nearly infinite
variety of madcap scenes, the original novel’s
author, authors of novels adapted from movies,
Pedro Almodovar, etc.) rolled over beneath
their respective [concretized handprints, side
walk footprints, looped advertisements of sway

ing breasts found from the tawdriest alleyways 

to the most commercial of the high-end drives,
tombstones, even the ones with the most
inaccurate, most legible quotes (carved or
imprinted in fonts that can be distinguished
by a few of the most naked eyes and audibly
repeated through mouths that in the most
seemingly asymmetrical ways hang below
the egg-shapes of such alert nudity), et
ceteras].  So, whodunnit?  By the time
each attendee exits the low-marquee’d

cinema-plex, who all without fail, via 

reflexes both voluntary and involuntary, 

attempt to quickly bury those silver screen

tainted eggs by squinting away the after

noon sun, the greater human population 

of our divine planet would already know

the culprit was neither the sister or

either of the three adult offspring of

January, our lead character.  And yet

those social media magnates, who 

from the opening sequence to the 

closing credits paid little to no 

attention to the neo-noir-ish flick,

remain by far the most suspect.