Pete's Expert Summary
It appears the human has acquired a monument to their own juvenile fantasies. This "Optimus Prime" is an offensively large, plastic totem that apparently contorts from a vaguely humanoid shape into a wheeled brick. They babble about it being a "heroic leader" that changes in six steps, which I can only assume are six steps toward ultimate boredom. Its purpose is clearly to be an oversized, dust-collecting obstacle in my prime sunbeam territory. While its sheer bulk might provide a satisfying thud when knocked from the credenza, the "easy conversion" sounds suspiciously like a series of loud, sleep-disturbing *clicks* and *snaps*. Unless it can transform into a self-heating bed or a perpetual motion gravy dispenser, its primary value is as a testament to the human's poor taste in household decor.
Key Features
- EXPERIENCE THE CLASSIC CONVERSION PLAY OF TRANSFORMERS TOYS: Transformers toys that change from robot to vehicle have captivated kids for generations.
- 2 TOYS IN 1: This toy robot changes into the signature red and blue Optimus Prime toy truck in 6 simple steps. Easy conversion for kids 6 years old and up.
- FAVORITE TRANSFORMERS CHARACTER: Transformers follows the story of the heroic Autobots, who fight to protect all life, and the evil Decepticons, who seek to conquer the universe. This timeless 11-inch Cyber Commander Series figure depicts Optimus Prime, legendary leader of the Autobots--essential when starting a Transformers toy collection.
- IMAGINE EXCITING BATTLES: Collect other 11-inch Cyber Commander Series Transformers figures so kids can imagine their own Autobot vs. Decepticon battles (Each sold separately. Subject to availability).
- MAKES A GREAT GIFT: This classic Optimus Prime action figure makes the perfect birthday or holiday gift.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It stood sentinel on the living room rug, a silent, rigid giant smelling of cellophane and foreign factories. This was the intruder, the “Optimus Prime.” It was tall, with a face that held a single, stoic expression of purpose—an expression I find deeply insulting to the noble art of doing absolutely nothing. I circled it once, twice, my tail giving a low, critical twitch. Its colors were an assault on the senses, a garish red and blue that clashed horribly with the subtle gray tones of my own magnificent fur. It was an inert chunk of plastic, unworthy of my attention, a statue commemorating nothing of importance. My human, a creature of baffling enthusiasms, soon returned. With a series of jarring cracks and snaps that made my ears flatten, they twisted and folded the poor statue. Limbs were tucked away, its proud head disappeared, and its form was grotesquely compacted until it was nothing more than a block with wheels. "See, Pete? He's a truck now!" the human chirped, before abandoning the victim and leaving the room. I stared at the thing. It was a tragedy. Where once there was a warrior (a plastic, foolish one, but a warrior nonetheless), there was now a mere conveyance. It had been stripped of its dignity, its very identity forcibly changed at the whim of a giant. A strange sort of pity stirred in my chest. This object couldn't defend itself. It was a prisoner in its own body, trapped in this crude, wheeled form. I decided then and there, it was my duty to liberate it. I approached the "truck" and gave it a firm nudge with my head. It rolled an inch. Pathetic. I hooked a claw under a seam, trying to pry loose one of its folded legs. I wasn't playing; this was a rescue mission. I was an agent of liberation, attempting to restore this creature to its true, upright self. The human’s claim of “easy conversion” was clearly a lie; this thing was stuck, and I was its only hope. For the next ten minutes, I dedicated myself to the cause, batting and pushing the plastic husk across the hardwood floor. With a mighty shove, I managed to send it careening into a chair leg, which produced a satisfying *pop* as a panel came loose. A small victory! I had begun the process of freeing its limbs. But then the human returned, scooped up the object of my efforts, and with a few swift motions, clicked it back into its truck-prison. My work was undone. I sat back on my haunches, gave a flick of my tail, and narrowed my eyes. The toy was not the problem. The toy was a casualty. My verdict is this: it is not a plaything, but a silent, tragic figure deserving of solemn observation. I will not play with it, but I will watch over it and silently judge its captor.
