Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with a set of four rigid, plastic effigies from a brand called "Disney," a name I associate with saccharine singing and not nearly enough realistic depictions of birds. These "Action Figures" are of a substantial 5-inch stature, meaning they are large enough to warrant a proper pounce. Their primary appeal, from a sophisticated predator's viewpoint, lies not in their supposed "collectibility" but in their gravitational potential; their 7-to-9 points of articulation suggest they can be contorted into various states of undignified surrender before being knocked from a great height. The tiny accessories are a bonus—morsels of plastic perfect for batting into unreachable voids, thus creating a new and interesting task for the staff. Still, they lack any respectable scent and contain no catnip, making them, at best, a temporary diversion between more important napping engagements.
Key Features
- The Simpsons larger scale figures are made with additional articulation
- Each Action Figure comes with 7-9 points of articulation
- Figures each has an accessory included
- 4 characters per wave. This first wave from Jakks Pacific includes Homer, Bart, Groundskeeper Willie and Otto
- For kids, fans, and collectors ages 4 years and up
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The box arrived with the usual fanfare—the tearing of tape, the rustle of cardboard, sounds that typically herald the arrival of new food or, if I'm lucky, a particularly robust shipping box for napping. Instead, the Human placed four garish figures in a stiff, unnatural lineup on my Persian rug. They stood there, an unwelcome delegation, polluting the air with a sterile plastic scent. I approached with my tail low, a silent inquiry. They were a new gang, and this was my territory. I decided an inspection was in order to establish the proper hierarchy. My first subject was the large, jaundiced one. He was round, clearly the heavy, and possessed a vacant stare that suggested a profound lack of intellect. I circled him slowly, sniffing. Nothing. Not a hint of mouse or feather. I gave his bulbous midsection a firm, testing tap with my paw. He wobbled precariously, a low plastic thud echoing on the floorboards, but did not fall. A certain resilience, I noted. The tiny circular object he came with—some sort of inedible pastry—was immediately flicked under the sofa. A tribute, whether he knew it or not. Next, I assessed his crew. There was a small one with a defiant, spiky silhouette, who toppled with a single, dismissive bat. Weak. Then came the wiry, frantic-looking one with the furious red mane and a tiny rake. The rake! Now this had potential. I deftly separated it from his plastic grasp and nudged it with my nose. It skittered beautifully across the hardwood, a far more engaging pursuit than the figure itself. The last one, with the strange wires on his head, was knocked over simply for being odd. They were, as a collective, unimpressive. Clumsy, silent, and entirely devoid of the frantic energy that makes for a worthy opponent. I left the four toppled figures lying in disarray, a silent testament to my authority. The Human seemed to think the figures themselves were the gift, a classic failure of interspecies understanding. I, however, knew the truth. They were merely disposable couriers, delivering the *real* treasures: the tiny, perfectly sized pieces of plastic that were now hidden in the darkest corners of the room. My work here was done. I had asserted my dominance, acquired new assets for future games of "make the human fetch," and could now retire to the sunbeam for a well-deserved nap, my kingdom secure once more. They were unworthy as adversaries, but their cargo was acceptable. Barely.
