Some days you just have to curl up and cover your nose with your tail.

Or maybe that’s just me.

I’ve taken on the air of the curmudgeonly old man when it comes to this. It’s all for play, to amuse The Yankee, really. But on this, the night of the annual Repetitive Doorbell Stress Inspection, there is a hint of truth in the sarcastic humor.

The calm before the late storm. Note the spooky characters just showing up in the background:

Someone dressed as a police car and was moving slowly through our neighborhood. Someone else was walking a young or miniature donkey through the neighborhood. This is as suburban as the suburbs get, and yet I still saw a donkey moving down the street.

Some kid was giving him all of the Tootsie Rolls, I’m sure.

We’ve also had a homemade Lego (the most creative costume of the night, in an otherwise bland parade of uninspired store-bought costumes or mixtures of things kids found around the house). And everyone has a slight annoyance with the teenagers who aren’t even trying — that’s the time of night when the porch light goes out at my house — but that was a four-year-old. The most costumed thing about her was the bag she was caring. Hurts the Halloween heart, that.

There was a great Puff the Magic Dragon. We had a good Cam Newton and there was also a Trovon Reed, another Auburn football player.

OK kids, you better start practicing. This is the policy we’re adopting for next year: If you can’t describe what your costume is in an elevator speech, you get no candy.

A three-year-old princess just did the get-candy-and-walk-behind-her-group-and-reappear-for-more-candy trick. And my lovely bride rewarded that behavior.

“She’s three!” she said.

And manipulating you already.

There’s a girl dressed as “Crap I found in my mom’s closet from the early 1980s.” I bet there was a Duran Duran cassette in the bottom of that bag.

Alright, those kids can drive. If I card you and you produce a license, you get no candy. Buy your own.

Taller than me? No candy for you. Stunts your growth. And would you mind cleaning that stretch of gutter, since you’re able to peer inside of it?

The little kids visiting, though, are of course adorable:

Remember Valerie from The Princess Bride? She just showed up at the door. Didn’t say a word, got her candy and was off like a flash. After that came four girls, three of whom did not sport any costume. The fourth was wearing her pajamas. Teenagers ruin it for everyone.

And so from here I’m formulating a rough strategy. If you are beyond the age of parental supervision with the trick-or-treating, or if you have advanced past hearing “What do you say?” after every interaction with an adult, you have outgrown Halloween.

I remember trick-or-treating in the fifth grade, just after we moved. Perhaps I went again the next year, but that was about it. (Then we made plans to scare the littler kids in the neighborhood. But there weren’t any kids in our neighborhood younger than us.) That should be good enough. Still want candy? Come rake my leaves and I’ll pay you. You can make a killing in candy bars that way. And I don’t mean the fun size, either, but the sheer unbridled ecstasy size.

We think we might be the only person in the neighborhood giving out chocolate. The reactions on the porch are rather impressive, at least by the little ones who still, you know, care.

The 147th Battalion and elements of the 502nd just deployed on our front yard. There is now a candy shortage. And just a moment later we had to dip into the personal stash.

And then the porch light went out. Time: 7:11 p.m.

That’s all it takes in our neighborhood. People drive in from other towns. There’s a rush for about 90 minutes and then the entire neighborhood is wiped out.

Never did see that donkey again.