Pete's Expert Summary
My human has brought another piece of plastic into my domain. From what I can gather, this "Funko Pop!" is a small, motionless effigy of some wheezing villain from their space opera. It is, by their own admission, an object for a "desk/bedroom shelf," meaning its primary function is to gather dust and occupy a potentially excellent sunbeam spot. Its vinyl construction means it lacks any satisfying texture for chewing, and its static pose offers none of the thrill of a pounce or the joy of a chase. While its oversized head might make it a tempting target for a gravity check off the edge of the bookshelf, I suspect its overall playability is less than that of a discarded bottle cap. A profound waste of my time, unless it proves to be satisfyingly loud when it hits the hardwood floor.
Key Features
- Celebrate the most stellar fandom of all with Pop! Darth Vader
- This Sith lord will do whatever it takes to retrieve the stolen Death Star plans and uncover the location of the rebel base; Now, his search has brought him to your Star Wars: Episode IV A New Hope collection, so hide your rebel forces!
- WHO ARE FUNKO: Funko is a leading pop culture lifestyle brand; We provide connection to pop culture with a product line that includes vinyl figures, action toys, plush, apparel, board games and accessories
- Keep or collect on desk/bedroom shelf or car
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ceremony was, as usual, absurdly overwrought. My human, whom I shall refer to as The Curator for the purposes of this narrative, gently unpacked the cardboard shrine to reveal the object. It was placed on the mantelpiece, a space normally reserved for tasteful framed photographs of a much younger, less-interesting version of me. He called it "Darth Vader," but I saw it only as The Impostor King. It stood there, a squat parody of menace with a head too large for its body, its black, glossy surface reflecting a distorted image of my own superior, fluffy form. I did not grace it with immediate attention. That would be a sign of weakness. Instead, I conducted a leisurely grooming session on the far side of the room, letting the silence and my deliberate indifference assert my authority over the space. The Impostor King remained still, its silence a cheap imitation of my own regal quietude. It did not blink. It did not twitch a whisker. It was an amateur, and I would expose it. After a sufficient display of nonchalance, I made my approach. I leaped onto the mantel with a silence that the figure, in all its plastic rigidity, could never hope to achieve. I circled it, my tail held high like a question mark of judgment. I sniffed its base. Nothing. A sterile, factory smell. No history, no life, no hint of a mouse recently held. I leaned in, my nose nearly touching its vacant, painted-on eye lenses. I stared into the abyss, and the abyss, being cheap vinyl, stared back with utter banality. There was no soul to challenge, no spirit to dominate. My verdict was swift and merciless. As a rival, it was a failure. As a decoration, it was gaudy. As a toy, it was an insult. I extended a single, perfect gray claw and gave its bulbous head a gentle *tap*. It wobbled precariously, a tiny, silent testament to its own instability. I did not push it over. Not yet. That is a pleasure to be savored. For now, it was enough to know that its reign on the mantel—and its very existence in my kingdom—was entirely at my discretion. It could stay, for now, as a monument to my infinite mercy.