Boo, Humbug!

Call me a Scrooge, but why can't adults leave Halloween to the kids?

Ah, October. A hint of mist in the damp air, a rustle from the trees as they shed their leaves in nature's annual striptease and, everywhere you look, ripe, corrugated pumpkins, waiting to be turned into something delicious by a touch of nutmeg and a hot oven. Except that the mist comes from dry ice stuck in a grinning skull, the whisper in the trees from nylon ghosts hung in the boughs, and the pumpkin, made of bilious orange plastic, has a gizmo inside that groans "Whoooooooo ..." as you walk past. Halloween is upon us again.

I hate it.


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