Some toys have heard our deepest, darkest, most intimate secrets, which I am sure they will use against us, and some have been soiled with our tears, which I am sure they will remember and bring back to us in that final kick on the head when we’re down, defeated and destroyed by our opponents.

So next time that Mr. Potato Head stares at you creepily with those deformed features of his, don’t be afraid to feel creeped out. He is, in fact, watching you. Always.

Moral: Don’t trust Elmo.

Why can’t we just go back to having children play with toy cars and non-creepily-animated-and-talking-and-pretending-to-be-real dolls?

Better yet, what happened to the days when children built castles and unrecognizable figures in sandboxes and played basketball, interacting with other kids rather than mechanical imitations of human life form?

If you see a toy coming at you with a knife or a machete, scream loudly, run, and attempt to destroy it with a blow from a bazooka. If you have no bazooka easily accessible, you’re just no fun.

Maybe “Toy Story” was trying to tell us something.

If you buy a toy called Elmo Knows Your Name, you have to enjoy creepy things at least to a certain extent.

We’re all going to die and there’s nothing we can do about that.