That’s a great metaphor, from Dennis Miller in the Washington Examiner:

In the wake of the publishing of the East Anglia e-mails, I’m beginning to see a Roy Cohn-at-Tailgunner-Joe’s-side quality in some of the more zealous climatological gurus’ incessant bleats. . . .
Some of them are no doubt vaguely cognizant of the fact that they might have way overbet this hand and that there’s now something much more important in play than the plight of the planet. And that of course would be their reputations and standing in the herd of man.
You ever come across raccoons in the outdoor trash can at 11:30 or so at night? As soon as they’re exposed by the beam of the flashlight (by the way, how much CO2 does the beam of a flashlight put into the atmosphere?), they turn on you with fangs and paws and let you know what follows will be a short conversation with very little talking involved.
Currently, climate scientists are raccoons hip-deep in statistical garbage and you should approach them with caution because they are unarmed (with facts) and dangerous.
In lieu of having the facts (i.e., the thermometer!) bear out their hypothesis, they are now going to have to get creative. They are going to have to press the bet now and steer into the delusional skid, and that sort of desperation makes for a really unsavory individual no matter how much good they are ostensibly doing for their fellow man.
Deniers will be disparaged, data will be fudged and theories will be advanced that are, if possible, even more wing-nuttier than some of the claptrap currently out there. If heretofore depictions of Manhattan under water in the year 2057 were shown to sixth-graders, they’re going to have to drop it down to preschoolers in deference to the Gullibility Expansion Joint.

The rest here.