Pete's Expert Summary
My human has procured what appears to be a set of… laminated rectangles. They arrive in these delightfully crinkly pouches, which emit a sound that rivals the rustling of the treat bag itself. This, I confess, is a feature of supreme quality. The ceremony of opening them seems to be the main event for the human, who then stares intently at the flat, silent images of various misshapen creatures depicted on the cards inside. For me, the true potential lies not in the cards, which are inherently passive and require far too much effort to chase, but in their latent ability to be batted from a high surface. The wrapper is an A+ auditory experience; the contents are merely a brief, gravity-assisted distraction before a nap.
Key Features
- 3 Pokemon booster packs from various sets
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ritual began, as it often does, with the human hunched over the coffee table, a low lamp casting long shadows that made the living room feel like a sacred grotto. In the center of this makeshift altar lay three shimmering packets. They crackled with a sound like autumn leaves, a promise of something crisp and new. I watched from my perch atop the sofa’s armrest, my tail giving a slow, judgmental sweep. The human’s focus was absolute, a level of devotion I typically only receive around dinnertime. This was, I deduced, an offering to some unseen, unworthy deity. With the careful precision of a bomb disposal expert, the human tore open the first packet. Ten stiff rectangles of paper were slid out and arranged in a neat row. The human made a soft, cooing sound, muttering strange incantations. "Oh, a Vaporeon," he whispered, a name that sounded like a cheap air freshener. He held up the card, showing me the picture of a blue creature with a ridiculous finned collar. I stared back, blinked slowly, and began meticulously cleaning a front paw, an act of supreme and deliberate indifference. He did not seem to get the message. As he opened the second and third packs, the table became littered with these silent, colorful idols. A small, yellow one with electrified cheeks. A large, orange, winged beast that looked vaguely flammable. My human and his friends, who had since arrived, began trading them, their voices a low hum of incomprehensible jargon. It was a cult. My human had joined a flat-paper cult. One of the cards, a particularly shiny one, was placed near the edge of the table. It glittered, catching the lamplight, an affront to my sophisticated, minimalist sensibilities. This would not do. I waited for a lull in the ceremony. A silent drop from the sofa, a fluid stalk across the rug, and then a single, perfectly executed tap of my paw. The shiny idol fluttered, spun, and slid to the floor, landing face-down. The cultists gasped, then laughed, one of them scooping it up while calling me a "little monster." They misunderstood my action completely. It was not play. It was a warning. A reminder that in this house, there is only one being worthy of worship, and my fur is far softer than their flimsy cardboard gods. The disruption was satisfying, but I fear the congregation remains unenlightened. I give the experience two paws up, but only for its potential to subvert a bizarre human ritual.
