Pete's Expert Summary
My human presented me with a crinkly plastic bag, a vessel of potential disappointment from a brand called LEGO. From what I can gather, these are small, hard plastic effigies of some... theatrical animals and creatures? The gimmick is that you don't know which one is inside, a cheap thrill for a species that hasn't mastered the art of smelling the difference between chicken and salmon through a closed door. For me, the appeal is not in the "collectible" nature—I do not hoard trinkets—but in their size. They seem perfectly calibrated for being swatted off a high shelf, making a delightful clatter on the hardwood floor before disappearing under the sofa. A fleeting moment of entertainment, perhaps, but hardly a substitute for a sunbeam or a premium, fish-based pâté.
Key Features
- Unexpected characters encourage endless play with these cool LEGO Minifigures The Muppets (71033) bags. A nostalgic surprise treat for kids and fans of any age
- Collectible fun in a bag with 1 of 12 buildable Disney’s The Muppets characters to discover, plus one or more accessories and a collector’s leaflet. A fun addition to any collection
- For kids of all ages, LEGO Minifigures characters appeal to any kid or fan aged 5 and up, inspiring imagination and helping build creativity and confidence through individual play or with friends
- A ‘just because’ treat. These high quality, limited edition minifigures and accessories can be given as an unexpected gift any time
- Ever since 1958, LEGO components have met stringent industry standards to ensure they connect consistently
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ritual began with the tell-tale crinkle. The human, my primary source of food and chin scratches, was hunched over the coffee table, carefully tearing open a small, foil-lined bag. I observed from my perch on the velvet armchair, feigning disinterest, my tail giving only the slightest twitch. Out tumbled a collection of tiny, brightly colored plastic bits. A pig, I believe. One wearing far too much purple and a garish blonde wig. The human assembled her with a foolish grin, placing the finished figurine, Miss Piggy, on the edge of the bookshelf. She stood there, frozen in a pose of absurd confidence, clutching a tiny plastic frog. For days, she presided over the living room, a silent, lavender-scented (the human had sprayed air freshener nearby) sentinel of bad taste. I would watch her from across the room. She didn't move. She didn't squeak. She was an affront to the dignified silence of my domain. The human would coo at her, "Isn't she fabulous, Pete?" Fabulous? She looked like a rejected piece of candy. My naps were disturbed by visions of her smug, painted-on smile. One evening, a noir film was playing on the television, casting long, dramatic shadows across the room. The moment was right. I did not pounce or swat, for that would be too crude. Instead, I leaped silently onto the bookshelf, my paws making no sound on the polished wood. I crept toward her, my grey form a phantom in the gloom. We were face to face. Her vacant eyes stared past me. I saw in her a reflection of all the vapid, pointless objects humans accumulate. There was no malice in my heart, only a sense of aesthetic justice. With the surgical precision of a seasoned predator, I nudged her not with my paw, but with my nose. She teetered for a moment, a perfect little drama playing out on the precipice. Then, she fell. But she did not clatter onto the floor. By a stroke of magnificent fortune, she landed squarely in the human's open knitting basket, nestled silently among the softest skeins of merino wool. The human, asleep on the sofa, never stirred. The pig was gone from her pedestal, vanquished not to the dusty underworld beneath the furniture, but to a soft, wooly prison of her own making. I groomed a single tuft of my white chest fur, satisfied. Order, and good taste, had been restored.
