The most awful day of the year

I hate July 4th. It's big and loud and puts too much blasting powder into too many hands of too many drunken rednecks. It scares the dog and keeps me locked in by dark to keep her from freaking out (and to be ready to put out any accidental fires caused by Jethro and Cletus.) Oh, and there's the over-zealous displays of nationalistic fervor bordering on the pathological.

But as much as I hate that national day of rockets, Red Bull and vodka, I'd rather it be July 4 every day if it meant never putting up with Halloween again.

• Gotta get home early. Don't be on the road when the precious little uns are out tramping and mooching.
• Gotta get home early. Don't be late to pay tithe to the little imps parading to my door like Mormons and Witnesses.
  
• Gotta get home early. Don't want to risk leaving the house unguarded.
  
• Gotta stock up on candy. No matter I'd rather give food to the hungry, I've got to feed the progeny of the middle-class.
  
• The poor dog goes batty, the doorbell rings endlessly, and did I mention the hoard of children?

I don't like children. I don't have children. I don't want children. I think children are better not seen and not heard. And yet I'll have dozens at my door this lovely autumn evening.

Little fuckers.

I do like a nicely carved pumpkin, however.