Like most people, I live in constant fear of inanimate objects coming to life and killing me. Movies like the Toy Story
franchise, purportedly made to delight and amuse the world, are actually eerie recreations of my worst nightmares. In fact, ever since the release of the first film in the franchise, I haven't spoken a single word to Tom Hanks, so upset am I with his involvement with the films.
On my therapist's
advice, I've been documenting some of my dreams about these sudden toy attacks, using the dream journal techniques I discussed a few weeks back.
And, because I understand that nothing amuses a Cracked audience so much as mocking a soul's inner most fears, I thought I'd share some of it with you. For hygienic reasons, I present it to you below, in a soothing Verdana font, instead of the tear and snot marked original.
The dream begins with me having taken on work as a self-employed mover following a series of poor life decisions, culminating with the purchase of a van. While assisting with the move of a seemingly normal suburban family, I enter the room of their son, Andy. Andy has apparently angered a shaman at some point in his past, resulting in every one of his curiously old fashioned toys becoming sentient, animated and evil.
Come closer and I shall sing you a song of pain.
Deciding that this hellfont of ancient native magic is none of my business, I slam the door shut behind me and run from the home. But when I reach the front door, I find to my horror that it is shut, the deadbolt locked tight. Behind me I hear the horrible, grating voice of Tom Hanks, cackling as he drops a key--clearly the only key to the house--into the back of Hamm, the piggy bank. I'm trapped. Immediately I wonder how many other movers have met the same fate as me; whether this family is cursed to forever lure manual laborers to their suburban tract home/feeding pit. I am about to die.
But as that realization starts to sink in, a strange energy comes over me. A fire forms in my bowels, and a rod of steel and hate forms where my spine should be. For a single, glorious moment, I can perceive the design of the universe, and my place within it. I shouldn't be afraid of toys. They should be afraid of me.
I take a couple seconds to form a plan...
Order of BattleWoody
An old school pull string cowboy doll, Woody is self evidently the leader of the group. Lacking some of the natural weapons of the other toys, Woody's primary strength is his intelligence, and his heart--which is cut from pure obsidian and can block out the sun.
A plastic spaceman action figure, with fold out wings and, surprisingly, a fully functional rocket pack. Buzz is also armed with a laser, utility belt and has a sturdy armored shell which was almost certainly formed out of children's teeth. The bravest and most heavily armed of the group, I surmise that by defeating Buzz and desecrating his corpse, I may break the will of the rest of the toys.
A cowgirl doll, who I'm presuming is Woody's wife or sister or both. Jessie is nominally lightly armed, but I will have to be wary of her devastating ability to sing sad songs.
I also take note of her red hair, which aside from implying the obvious evilness, also suggests she is probably drunk.