I know nothing about Teletubbies. I have never observed one in the wild, nor have I watched the films that document their lives. I am ignorant of their genealogy, their culture, their diet or their religion. All I know is that they are terrifying, and that on dark nights when the wind whistles ominously through the eaves of my house, I dream of Tinky-winky’s terrible face and shudder into wakefulness. On those nights, my anguished screams rouse the neighbors and fearful tears flow unrestricted from my widening eyes. 

Why do I shudder so? It is not solely because of the traumatic childhood incident that I am legally obligated not to recount. It is also because the Teletubbies are horrific; they are grotesque; their countenances convey unexplainable malice. Although their round faces appear happy and carefree, their facades of glee do not deceive me. They are eight feet tall and strong as oxen, and they are clearly the henchmen of an evil lord. They deceive us with their gleefulness, but in time they will be our executioners.

And the sun! O the terrible infantile expression that it bears! How I wish that the Creator had not imbued the star with such sentience! Why must the sun think and feel? What purpose does that serve? How does this change our perception of the universe? Are all celestial bodies sentient? Who are the baby sun’s parents? So many torturous questions come to mind, none answerable. I am left to wallow in my existential anguish instead.

Finally, their general, Tinky-winky, terrifies me. He is over eight feet tall, a huge beast who likely feeds on human flesh and the dreams of children. When Armageddon arrives, Tinky-winky–the fifth horseman–will mount his purple steed and ride. Fear him. Fear them all. And when the final days arrive, flee from the watchful gaze of the infant sun.