Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and often baffling wisdom, has procured another small, stationary effigy. This one, a product of a company called "Funko," appears to be a tribute to some holiday film I was forced to watch last winter. It features the gangly blue creature with the nose, bizarrely cosplaying as a human author, accompanied by a small, smirking rodent. The box proclaims it is made of "premium vinyl," which to my discerning claws translates as "unpleasantly smooth and entirely un-shreddable." Its sole purpose seems to be occupying shelf space that could otherwise be used for my mid-morning sunbathing. While the inclusion of a rat is a nod in the right direction, its rigid, plastic form makes it a mockery of true prey. This is not a toy; it is an idol for the humans' strange pop-culture religion, and a profound waste of my attention.
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 high-quality, durable vinyl, this collectible is built to last and withstand daily wear, ensuring long-lasting enjoyment for fans and collectors alike.
- PERFECT GIFT FOR THE MUPPETS FANS - Ideal for holidays, birthdays, or special occasions and as a present this exclusive figurine is a must-have addition to any The Muppets merchandise collection
- EXPAND YOUR COLLECTION - Add this unique Gonzo 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 figures, plush, apparel, board games, and more.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It arrived in a box, which I graciously inspected and approved of by sitting in it for a full hour. The contents, however, were another matter entirely. My human placed the two figures—the blue novelist and his tiny rat friend—on the end table, right next to my favorite snoozing spot. I regarded them with silent contempt. They did not move. They did not smell. They simply stood there, their oversized, glossy black eyes staring into the middle distance, utterly oblivious to the perfection of the feline specimen beside them. I gave the rat, Rizzo, a tentative pat with a soft paw. It didn't flinch. It didn't squeak. It merely wobbled slightly, a hard, soulless little thing. Pathetic. That night, a strange thing happened. I was dreaming, as I often do, of a world where gravity did not apply to laser dots and every can opener heralded a feast. But this dream was different. I found myself in a vast, empty library, the shelves lined not with books, but with identical vinyl figures of myself in various poses. Suddenly, a voice, a nasally honk, echoed through the hall. "Pete! Your time is not yet done!" Before me stood the Gonzo figure, now ten feet tall, his felt coat swirling like a storm cloud. He pointed a long, vinyl finger at me. "You have been visited by one spirit, Rizzo, the Ghost of Toys Ignored! But you must change your ways!" He led me through a whirlwind of visions. I saw the sad, crumpled form of the catnip mouse I had abandoned under the sofa. I witnessed the slow decay of a feather wand, its plumage scattered and forgotten. Finally, he showed me a bleak and terrible future: my human, lonely, consoling themselves by purchasing yet another silent, plastic figure, having given up on ever finding a toy that could truly please me. The horror of a world with more Funkos and fewer interactive toys was too much to bear. I awoke with a gasp, my gray fur standing on end. I looked over at the end table. The little Gonzo and Rizzo figures were exactly where my human had left them, their painted smiles seeming less smug and more like a silent warning. They were not toys to be played with. They were messengers. I stood up, stretched languidly, and trotted over to the toy basket. I located the slightly-less-exciting-than-yesterday crinkle ball and, with a newfound sense of purpose, batted it directly under the heaviest armchair in the room, then looked at my human and meowed imperiously. The oracle had spoken, and its message was clear: demand better toys. For that service, the plastic duo had earned their place on the end table. For now.
