Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in her infinite and often baffling wisdom, has presented me with this… thing. It is, I deduce, a plush effigy of a fish, but one that has been grotesquely malformed with a third eye, a testament to whatever ecological disaster it supposedly survived in that loud cartoon she watches. It's aggressively orange, which is a point in its favor, I suppose—high visibility for pouncing. The promise of "soft, high quality materials" is the bare minimum I expect for my delicate paws and discerning palate. However, it lacks any electronic whirring, feathery bits, or, most criminally, a pouch for catnip. Its primary function seems to be a nostalgic paperweight for a "Man Turning 40," an age I can only assume is profoundly depressing. I suspect this will be more of a dust-collecting shelf ornament than a worthy adversary.
Key Features
- Blinky is featured in The Simpsons, Season 2, Episode 4 "Two Cars in Every Garage and Three Eyes on Every Fish"
- Perfect For Kids Of All Ages! Great Gift For Men Turning 40!
- The Whole Family Will Love This Friendly Little Guy!
- Made From Soft, High Quality Materials
- *Please Note: Does Not Emit Radiation
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The offering was presented with the usual fanfare. My human dangled the three-eyed fish before me, making little "ooh" and "aah" sounds as if she were revealing the crown jewels. I observed it from my perch on the back of the sofa, unimpressed. It was a caricature, a mockery of the sleek, delicious creatures I dreamt of. Its three embroidered eyes stared into the middle distance, devoid of life or challenge. I gave it a single, perfunctory bat with a soft paw, more to dismiss it than to engage. It flopped over pathetically. A failure. I turned away and began meticulously grooming a single stray piece of my gray fur, the universal signal for "you have bored me." My human, undeterred, placed the garish creature on the mantle, like some bizarre, fuzzy idol. And there it sat for days, judging me with its tripartite gaze. A silent, orange blight on an otherwise tasteful room. One evening, a storm rolled in, the kind that rattles the windows and makes the lights flicker. A particularly loud clap of thunder caused the house to shudder, and in the momentary darkness, I saw it. The three eyes, for an instant, seemed to catch the flash of lightning outside, glowing with an eerie, internal light. My cynicism wavered, replaced by a primal curiosity. Was this plush more than it seemed? A vessel for some storm spirit? A harbinger? When the lights steadied, I leaped from the sofa and approached the mantle with newfound purpose. I stretched a paw up, hooked a claw into its soft, yielding fabric, and tugged. It tumbled down, landing on the rug with a soft *thump*. I pounced, not with the lazy boredom of before, but with the ferocity of an exorcist. I pinned it, bit its face, and bunny-kicked its plump, radiation-free body. I was wrestling with the very essence of the storm itself, a vibrant, three-eyed god of thunder and lightning. After a vigorous battle, I stood over my vanquished foe, panting slightly. The storm outside began to calm, its fury apparently spent. The fish was just a fish again, a simple plush toy lying defeated on the floor. But it had, for a moment, been a worthy opponent, a conduit for the wild chaos of the world outside my window. I dragged it by its tail fin under the coffee table—my lair—and curled up beside it. It would not do for a daily distraction, but as a trophy from my war against the weather? Acceptable. Very acceptable indeed.
