Last weekend was the television watching event of the year. Granted, that’s not really saying much – it’s only February. This early on, you can say “Meet the Spartans” is the funniest movie of the year and not technically be lying, although your soul might shrivel up and die.

And at a time when the writers’ strike has left television bereft of new shows, television viewers – not usually renowned for their fastidious taste — will watch anything.

Still, last weekend’s event was a refreshing break from reruns and vapid reality shows. It was the perfect opportunity to gather around the television and celebrate the first watchable piece of programming since “Celebrity Dance Rehab with Lie Detectors.”

Cheering crowds, men in uniforms, the anxious anticipation, the bitter, bitter ending – an atmosphere like that could only mean one thing: Groundhog Day.

On Feb. 2, nearly 30,000 masochists got up before sunrise in 14-degree weather to watch a groundhog get yanked from his tree stump home by some men in top hats.

Yes, like Valentine’s Day and other similarly unenjoyable holidays, Groundhog Day is the kind of day that is celebrated seriously by a few zealots, and either resented or ignored by the rest of the nation.

But it turns out there is more intrigue to this tradition than what first appears. Far from being an innocent festival to predict the weather for the next six weeks, Groundhog Day is actually a day of suspicion, rivalries, deception and secrecy.

Groundhog Day is celebrated all over North America, but the small town of Punxsutawney, Pa., has a hypnotic monopoly on the day’s festivities. How did this sleepy little town become the attention hog of this precious holiday? It’s all thanks to a group known as the Inner Circle.

More elite than Mensa, more secretive than the Freemasons and more populated by old, white men than your American history textbook, the all-male enclave has a long tradition of being exclusive and protective of its duties, which chiefly comprise planning the day’s festivities, taking care of the groundhog and excluding women and minorities.

Punxsutawney Phil, the resident weather prophet, has his share of secrets, too.

Supposedly, he has been forecasting the winter for 120 years.

The miracle of his age is attributed to a magical elixir, administered every summer, which extends his life for seven years. Not convinced?

Take a look at some of the members of the Inner Circle. They’ve clearly been extending their lives further than they should. It also explains their affinity for top hats.

Phil, however, seems to lead a life of indulgence and dissolution.

He’s been featured in movies, on the news, on “The Oprah Winfrey Show” – he even met President Reagan.

But fame has taken its toll on the small-town burrower.

Every year when he is pulled out of his home and held up like an obese Simba for all world to see, his extra fur rolls more and more over the sides of his holder’s hands, and his beady eyes look dull and uninterested.

Like Elvis in his fat days, Phil, perhaps hitting the “magical elixir” a little too hard, is jaded beyond his years.

There remains the question, though, of Punxsutawney Phil’s ability to predict the weather.

This year, he saw his shadow and predicted six more weeks of winter. Not a huge surprise, given he has only not seen his shadow 14 times since he started making predictions in 1887.

Still, there was controversy this year, when Phil’s prediction conflicted with the prediction of a less-famous groundhog with a more difficult name: Shubenacadie Sam. Unlike his more famous colleague, Canada’s Shubenacadie Sam didn’t see a shadow, meaning spring will come early.

Whom to believe? One exciting solution would be to have Phil and Sam fight to the death. Phil, being an aggressive American on life-enhancement drugs, would probably beat up Sam, but all we might prove there is that Phil is strong and fat.

No, if we really want to know which of these groundhogs is telling the truth, we have only one choice: “Celebrity Dance Rehab with Lie Detectors.” Can anyone say, “Emmy”?