Why Teletubbies Are Evil

There is a children's TV program that takes place under gray English skies where a sun with the face of a baby so adorable he must be computer-generated rises as a tinny march plays on the soundtrack.

And then the Teletubbies appear--four blobs, performers in costumes, each a different color of pale frosting with defining antennae flopping on top of their heads--cavorting and frolicking in an astroturfed wasteland, a barren miniature golf course. They take karate stances for no apparent reason. They carry purses. They have names like Dipsy and Tinky-Winky. They have smooth, ageless, simian faces. They speak in sentence fragments and clipped phrases, sounding vaguely like giddy Japanese waitresses who work at the sushi bar in Hell. Sometimes they interact with a narrator who asks urgent questions along the lines of, "What's in the bag, Tinky-Winky?"

Like toddlers, the Teletubbies are amazed by balls, pieces of felt and plastic food. Holding balls, pieces of felt and plastic food. Holding hand while dancing around a plant is an especially popular pastime. Toys are put in bags and then pulled out of bags with great fanfare and encouragement. Minutes go by as the Teletubbies fall over while the sun looks down on them and squeals with delight. Sober, straining to pay attention you have no idea what's going on. Imagining the performers in those suits making "tubby custard," tasting "tubby toast" and trying on hats can move you to make yourself a very large drink.

Teletubbies share this space with giant, motley rabbits that are real and lumber toward plastic flower beds (one insider tells me the rabbits are as large as "small lambs" and are "bred especially" for this show). Farting noises commence, periscopes pop out of astroturf, a pinwheel dispenses sparkly rays causing the Teletubbies to huddle and spaz out, and that's when the gray squares on their bellies start glowing.

These Oompa Loompas on acid are actually living televisions--all proudly baring a screen embedded in their stomachs, which flash to life, showing short films of real children acting disconcertingly like Teletubbies--attempting gymnastics, zipping up bags, closing and opening drawers, deciding what to wear, singing mindlessly, hiding from each other (actually what any number of my friends in Manhattan do on a daily basis). This documentary footage reminds you of the thin line between the speech patterns of children and total drunks.

Though it lacks the forced, noxious gaiety of Barny, Teletubbies seems like a wicked satirist's idea of a horrible children's program watched in a future concocted by Huxley or Orwell or Gibson. They are reminiscent of the mutants in David Cronenberg's The Brood, and you can only stare and think: well they must have been designed to upset us. It's a dare. Marilyn Manson's calculated shock tactics seem phony compared