Strike-Four

There is a really amazing thing that goes with moving into my new neighborhood: It is called Striking. I have never seen nor heard of this phenomenon before, so I will explain: People, most likely little people (and no, Tiff, not LITTLE people), come to your door, drop a bag of loot on your doorstep and run. You, as the parent, let you kid rush to the door and open it, look around (some peeps get a little nutty here, mostly dads, and go running after the hooligans), find the goods, and eat nummies all night. Also, inside the bag, is a sheet with the explaination that the "Phantom" of Worthington has just struck, and that we are to hang an "I have been struck" sign (also included) on our door. The neighborhood doors are pock-marked with these signs.
So, last night, our own little Little was struck, and upon dumping her newly acquired sugar bombs upon her bed, she exclaimed, "Milk DUDES!, A whole bunch of boxes of Milk Dudes!"
Dave and I about died. So, now, they are officially "Milk Dudes."