The Horror of the Counting Sheep^TM

By Richard Davidson

I went to the Serta^TM website, and I ordered my very own Serta^TM Counting Sheep^TM. 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^TM 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^TM, 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^TM?’”

“Yes, but I don’t see why...”

“And did you click a second little button that said ‘stop sending Counting Sheep^TM?’”

“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^TM for Mr. Simpkins,” it said.

“No, there’s no Candygram^TM 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^TM.”

“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^TM with the number 43 on his side.

“If I drink this Beefeater^TM 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^TM 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^TM guy.”

I pictured hundreds of Serta^TM Counting Sheep^TM, 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^TM Counting Sheep^TM, 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^TM, washing them down with flat Diet Pepsi^TM.

“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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