Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with what they seem to think is a toy, but my superior feline intellect immediately identifies it for what it is: a static, plastic totem for their strange pop culture rituals. This "Funko" brand specializes in these oversized-head effigies, and this one appears to be a stern-looking man who had a very unfortunate run-in with a box of computer parts. At a mere 3.75 inches, it's the perfect size for batting off a high shelf, and its "durable vinyl" construction promises a satisfying skitter across the hardwood floors. However, it lacks any of the essential qualities of a true plaything—it does not crinkle, it is not filled with catnip, and it does not scurry away in terror. It is simply an object, destined to gather dust until I decide its true purpose is to test the laws of gravity.
Key Features
- IDEAL COLLECTIBLE SIZE - At approximately 3.75 inches (9.5 cm) tall, this vinyl mini figurine complements other collectable merchandise and fits perfectly in your display case or on your desk
- PREMIUM VINYL MATERIAL - Made from quality, durable vinyl, this collectible is built to last and withstand daily wear, ensuring long-lasting enjoyment for fans and collectors alike
- GIFT IDEA FOR STAR TREK FIRST CONTACT FANS - Ideal for holidays, birthdays, or special occasions and as a present this figurine is a must-have addition to any Star Trek First Contact merchandise collection
- EXPAND YOUR COLLECTION - Add this unique Jean-Luc Picard vinyl display piece to your growing assortment of Funko Pop figures, and seek out other rare and exclusive collectible items for a complete set
- LEADING POP CULTURE BRAND - Trust in the expertise of Funko, the premier creator of pop culture merchandise that includes vinyl figures, action toys, plush, apparel, board games, and more
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The box arrived with an air of reverence that I, a creature of exquisite softness and perfect grooming, typically reserve for myself. My human carefully sliced the tape, cooing over the plastic-and-cardboard prison containing the little man. "Locutus," he called him, placing the figure on the highest perch of the great wooden climbing structure they call a "bookcase." From my vantage point on the sofa, I watched. The figure stood motionless, a tiny tyrant with a single, malevolent red eye that seemed to mock my terrestrial existence. This was not a gift for me; it was a challenge. A monument to my human's poor taste, placed in a sunbeam that was rightfully mine. For days, a silent war was waged between us. I would leap onto the desk below the shelf, fixing my gaze upon him. He would stare back, his blocky head unmoving, his little laser-eye a dot of pure insolence. My human would occasionally pick him up, muttering about the "detail on the ocular implant" and the "quality of the vinyl." I heard the word "collectible," which in human-speak means "do not touch with your adorable, sharp-clawed paws." The sheer audacity. He was an inanimate object occupying prime real estate. His silent judgment from on high could not be tolerated. Resistance, as this character was apparently fond of saying, was not an option for me. The opportunity came during the distracting clamor of the shiny food-pebbles hitting my bowl. While the human’s attention was diverted, I made my move. A graceful leap to the armchair, a silent bound to the mid-level shelf, and a final, powerful spring to the summit. I was now face-to-face with the usurper. He was smaller up close, less intimidating. His large head seemed comically unbalanced on his tiny body. I raised a pristine white paw, extended a single claw just for effect, and delivered a precise, calculated tap to the side of his oversized head. He toppled without a fight, a silent, undignified plummet to the plush rug below. There was no satisfying clatter, just a soft *thump*. My human cried out, "Pete, no! He's a collectible!" He scooped up the little tyrant, inspecting him for scuffs before placing him on a much lower, far less prestigious desk shelf. I, meanwhile, settled into the newly conquered, sun-drenched territory, kneading the wood with satisfaction. The little man was no toy. He was a tool. A pawn in my strategic acquisition of premium napping locations. In that, I suppose, he served a purpose. He has been assimilated into my world, where all things ultimately bend to my comfort. He can stay.
