James Joyce's "Groundhog Day" or "Phil Connor's Wake"

gopherrun past links and Semtex, dough he cud nae say for shite the 19th hole nurture of Spackler’s major mallfunctionjunction. (Loving on burrowed thyme, the krayture.) Bigbadaboombang! Alarum Mr. Connors! I got you bait! I cod, you bay! Upaneatem, sick, sick, sick! Chronillogically speaking, it’s 6 a.m againagain! Geeohmyday! Ichod Yuban! Drop your socks and beat the clock! AieeGodyou! With lightning speed Phil's manly fist flies! SMASHBASHCRASHSLASHBUSTBURNFUCKYOUYOUFUCKINGSONYDREAMMACHINE Tink. (A mormon of soylents for the poor wittle chrononometer. Hey, man.) Killing time, the Philsbury D'ohboy rises. No? Bedwardfalls!? Wrong way, Culliganman! Wake he, wake he! Nowthen, sleepyhodhollow. Get it up! And he duds. Finially! And a goyful Jour de la Marmotte to you, Monsieur Fool Conman! Your carse from prochroistian bed entiredly remove now, see view please, and joint the funt in Purgatorwney, Punsylvania, where suicide is pointless and it’s never too late too late too late. (Sorry squire I scratched the record.) On your toes now, Mr. Overground Weathermurray, who gnose which W.A.S.T.E the wind blows (Me!) or why skyhighhaired martial vandellas filched wot focking handle. (Me!) Dream no more of Spackled Cervix or lesterbangs of gulf curse hos. Look out of any widow! Any mourning, any die! Sonny today, Cher tomorrow, you feel me? Id’s Showtime, baby! Turnontunein today’s reeferrerun on the 27-inch motelhellrhume Skylarge scream! Uckup! (Feck the walls are thin.) Seize the Phish, lazyboyrecliner! Cease your eternal recursing! Carry on, you have no choice. Carrion, you have no Joys. It’s Feeb Too, today, all day, everyday! Happy Groundhawg Die! Hippy Barfday! And many hypedup returns, you balding Irish bastard. Calibrate good times toadie, come on! Scythe. Upandout is all I'm saying. Dis appointment awaits with the hog of the ground. (The Shadow knows!) E'en now, your checkcutting overlords fret in the Burg of the Pitt, impatient in their godseyepoking skyscrape eyries. On film the fell fiends feed. Great is their hunger. Cruel is their raptor’s cry. Hear it echoecho! Media immediately! Media immediately!

Jebus wept, am I being too subtle? Ticktockticktock is the pint I’m driving at. Masters of the Err need footage of the hour. Pretty Ms. Sexliesviddytape and Cabinboy need puffpiecepatter. So, if it's no skin off your hip gnosis, do it again again, Mr. Talkinghead, pretty please with sugarsugar on top, if it's not too much bloody tribble. Get your karma on the rogue to nowhere now! Overdrive your arse! Break the déjàvoodoo spell! You don’t have all die.

A Skeleton Key to Phil Connors Wake
By now you’re probably wondering as to the point behind this whole wretched exercise. Oh .. you’re not? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. I do go on and on. Anyway. James Joyce’s “Finnegans Wake” posited a cyclic theory of history. I.e.: we live in a big dream that endlessly circles back on itself and bites its own tail. Ironically, Joyce’s birthday was February 2! Groundhog Day! You know. Like that Bill Murray movie where the same day kept repeating. Wacky coincidence, huh? So, uh. Being fundamentally insane, I put my useless English Major to work and wrote this parody for the five people on the planet who might actually find it funny. That's it. Thank you for your time.