The vuvuzela made the news in recent years when it began to give South African soccer enthusiasts hearing damage. For those who don’t want to follow the link, a vuvuzela is basically a plastic horn that plays one — just one — note. Loudly.

This summer, someone in my neighborhood decided it would make a lovely child’s gift — perhaps someone who hated the kid’s parents — and so my summer edits were punctuated by the noisome B3 emanating from the wretched object. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and…

You get the idea.

Misophone that I am, I sat at my computer muttering dark imprecations and hoping the thing would break.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one in the neighborhood who hated it. We found it, recently, in the street. Flat as a pancake. Bearing tire tracks.

I’m looking forward to a quieter summer.