There is a childrenıs 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, performances in costumes, each a different color of pale frosting with defining antennae flopping on top of their heads- cavorting and frolicking in an Astroturf 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 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-Inky?"

Like toddlers, balls, pieces of felt and plastic food, amaze the Teletubbies. Holding hands while dancing around 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 flowerbeds (one insider tells me the rabbits are as large as "small lambs" and are "bred especially" for the 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 pattern of children and total drunks.

Though it lacks the forced, nocuous gaiety of Barney, Teletubbies seems like a wicked Satanistıs idea of horrible children's program watch 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 to these psychedelic teddy bears (a warning: do not play The Dope Show over Teletubbies with the volume off). I would actually rather have my kids watch Taxi Cab Confessions or Deliverance.

The soothing tones, the eerie quiet, the New Agey vibe, the immaculate surfaces, everything so anal and controlled and antiseptic, a world where even the spontaneous seems rehearsed, the sheer humorousness of it all- is what makes Teletubbies so creepy and emblematic of the new mothers and fathers of my generation.

Part of my resentment stems from the fact that I'm at an age where the majority of these friends are having children and settling down and this intrudes upon my bachelor lifestyle: dinner reservations are now made at seven, wilder invitations are bypasses, casual indignation about drugs and movie violence (this from former addicts, dealers, nymphs). But part of it stems from the hypocrisy of adults- the creators of Teletubbies and the scared, thoughtful parents plopping their kids in front of the tube- who over-identify with children and want the world baby-proofed. Adults who want the world to conform to their own notion of safety.

There was a mad, anarchic quality to Sesame Street- wit and asses were in abundance- in the late 60s and early 70s. The puppets were boisterous and often confused and fed up with adults (authority figures) surrounding them. There were skits, rock songs, a general air of messiness that is conspicuously absent from Teletibbies and which makes it such an odious example of 90s blandness. It's emblematic of a time when cultural artifacts are stripped down to such an essential dumbness that people can locate purity and a familiarity they find soothing. Comfort abounds. Get Zent! Zone out! Sshhh.

One gets the feeling that if the Cookie Monster or Oscar the Crouch entered Teletubby and, their uncontrollable natures would compel the Teletubbies to club the living shot of them and have the giant pinwheel make their Muppet corpses disappear.