The Horror of
the Counting Sheep™
I
went to the Serta™ website, and I ordered my
very own Serta™ Counting Sheep™. I
thought they’d send me a stuffed doll, but instead I got an animated sheep with
the number 43 on his side.
I
was amazed.
“How
can you even exist?” I was compelled to ask the artificially generated
creature, to which he could only smile.
“Animation
has come a long way since Disney first strung together some painted cells,” he
sniffed pompously, “I’m the combination of years of hard work by geniuses, and
your overworked imagination.”
“That
hardly seems likely, or even possible,” I countered, feeling I’d made a pretty
good point.
“Just
wait,” he said, “it gets better.”
To
me, those were the most ominous words ever to come out of the mouth of an
animated Counting Sheep™, and I wondered if anybody
realized that I actually sleep on a futon.
What could this bizarre cartoon character be speaking of? I got a chill, and went to close a window
that hadn’t been open at all.
“I’ve
never actually counted sheep to try and fall asleep,” I informed him.
“That’s
what you say now,” he countered abruptly,
with a look that would sour goat cheese.
“Let
me ask you a question,” he said, turning the tables, “when you ordered me, did
you click a little button that said ‘send Counting Sheep™?’”
“Yes,
but I don’t see why...”
“And
did you click a second little button that said ‘stop sending Counting Sheep™?’”
“What?”
I bellowed, astounded.
“You
heard me,” he laughed.
“You
have to click a second button to get them to stop sending sheep?” I was enraged, and sad at the same time. Had our society really devolved to this
level? And if so, what other products
could I expect to see delivered day after day, laden upon me like rice on a
palm tree?
“You
might want to re-examine that last sentence,” he said with a wink.
“That’ll
be the day when I take grammar lessons from a hallucination,” I said glibly.
“You
wish I was a hallucination, pal.”
With
that came a knock at the door.
“Flowers
for Mr. Simpkins,” said a voice.
“I
don’t believe you,” I answered, and I really didn’t.
“Candy;
candygram for Mr. Simpkins,” it said.
“No,
there’s no candygram either,” I hollered, “so go away!”
There
was a moment of silence. It resonated
sweetly throughout the house, and the cinnamon apple slices that were baking at
exactly 325 degrees.
“Land
shark.”
“Give
me a break,” I lamented, “you’re just trying to get me to open the door,
because you want to deliver another sheep.”
“Sheep? That’s preposterous,” said the voice.
“I
think you should open the door,” said the Counting Sheep™ with the number 43 on his side.
“If
I drink this Gin, will you disappear?” I asked soberly.
“Try
it and see,” said the animated sheep, hoping I would.
“Would
you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?” came a falsetto voice through the
door.
“How
many of ‘em do you think are out there?” I asked my unworldly companion.
“How
many what?”
“Sheep! Don’t play dumb with me!”
“It’s
probably just the Fed-Ex guy.”
I
pictured hundreds of Serta™ Counting Sheep™, grazing on my lawn, patiently waiting to be
counted, and I had to ask, “how high do the numbers go, anyway?”
I
was sure that in the commercial I hadn’t seen anybody over 43, but how
carefully had I really watched? And I
think an even more important question is, do they show all of them in the
commercial?
What
the hell am I talking about; this can’t even really be happening. Animated sheep don’t exist in the same
dimension as we do, so there must have been something in that chicken, or
perhaps I’ve fallen asleep again.
“No,
you’re not asleep,” said the feisty little Number 43.
“Great. Not only can you talk, you can read my mind.”
The
front door was bulging inward, groaning under the strain of what must have been
thousands of insane animated sheep with numbers on their sides, each more
wicked and bloodthirsty than the last, with thousands of tiny scissors and
knives, ready to rip me to shreds; a memory for those who knew my name.
“Maybe
it’s the doctors,” said #43, out of the side of a smile.
Over
the groaning of the door, I heard several gunshots, and I had to wonder how
they could shoot without opposable thumbs; a problem so fascinating, I
considered calling someone, but they’d cut the phone lines.
“Hello,
operator? My house is under attack by
the Serta™ Counting Sheep™, and they’re armed. What should I do?” I screamed into the dead
line, and a voice came over it, much to my surprise.
“Sir,
I’ve run this past my supervisor, and the Mayor, and the Governor, and the
consensus appears to be that you should let them in, and drink some nice cocoa.”
“That’s
no operator, it’s one of THEM!” I screamed, slamming the receiver down, and
going mad. Eeeg Pobaggy
Mmmmrrrrrfffffff? Gna Gna Gna!
I
ran (potato wanawaki!) into the kitchen, and reached into the giant floating
clown’s head that was really my cupboard, and ate twelve Sominex, washing them
down with flat Diet Pepsi.
“Mmraoarghhh!”
I said thoughtfully, starting to feel like myself again, when the door came
crashing down, and the room filled with animated sheep with numbers on their
sides.
I
leaned against the cupboard door, which was a cupboard door again, and not a
clown’s head at all, and with a sickly smile, all squiggly like a cartoon
smile, began counting.
I
didn’t make it past 8 before I was unconscious in a puddle of drool.
“Plorp.” “Blap.” my nose and mouth sang in perfect
harmony.
When
I awoke, the sheep were all milling about, grazing on my living room
carpeting. Outside, trucks were pulling
up, filled with more. They were dropping
them from helicopters, and they’d land with a mighty “splat!” and then bounce
back into their normal shape, as animated creatures are prone to do.
I
lay back down, my head splitting in a thousand directions. All I could do was wonder what else I’d
ordered over the internet.
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