Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in its infinite and often baffling wisdom, has procured a small, loud, yellow box. From what I can gather by observing the creature's frantic thumb-wiggling, this "My Arcade Ms. Pac-Man Joystick Player" is a device designed to simulate the hunting of glowing dots. For the human, it seems to be an exercise in nostalgia. For me, it presents a curious cacophony of electronic chirps and a mesmerizing screen full of frantic, moving lights. The portability means it can invade any of my prime napping spots, but its small size also makes it tantalizingly battable. The true test will be whether the sounds it emits are more irritating than intriguing, and if that little red-tipped stick provides a satisfying spring-back when swatted.
Key Features
- OFFICIALLY LICENSED: This is an officially licensed Bandai Namco title, ensuring an authentic gaming experience.
- Features artwork inspired by the original Ms.PAC-MAN arcade cabinet.
- High score saving. Includes classic mode and speed up mode.
- Fully playable on the go. Intuitive user interface. Built-in speaker with volume control.
- 3.5 mm headphone port to connect your headphones. Adjustable screen brightness.
- High resolution 3.5" full color vertical display. Perfect for any game room, oice or display case!
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The Unboxing was, as usual, a spectacle of crinkling plastic and triumphant noises from my staff. I watched from my perch atop the sofa, tail giving a slow, judgmental twitch. He placed the garish yellow thing on the coffee table, a monument to his poor taste, and began fiddling. A series of piercing electronic squawks erupted, a sound I can only describe as a digital bird being systematically dismembered. *Wocka-wocka-wocka*. It was an affront to the serene quiet of my afternoon. I flattened my ears, my pristine gray tuxedo fur bristling slightly. This would not stand. After the human was sufficiently distracted by a summons from the glowing food-box in the kitchen, I made my move. I leapt silently onto the table, a shadow of gray and white against the polished wood. The box was still chattering to itself, its little screen alive with motion. A bright yellow circle, pursued by a gang of colorful, bobbing blobs, zipped around a maze. I did not see a "game." I saw a frantic, glowing beetle trying to escape a quartet of spectral predators. The *wocka-wocka* was its cry for help, a beacon for a superior hunter like myself. My instincts, honed over generations of discerning predators, took over. My initial probe was a gentle pat with a soft, claw-sheathed paw against the screen. The beetle did not react, continuing its doomed flight behind the plastic barrier. Frustrating. My attention shifted to the red-tipped stalk protruding from the top. It wiggled. I hooked a single, sharp claw around it and gave a tentative pull. The beetle on the screen veered wildly, crashing into one of the spectral blobs, and the box emitted a pathetic descending arpeggio of failure. Ah, so *that* was the beetle's steering mechanism. I had, in my brilliance, discovered its weakness. I spent the next ten minutes conducting a series of rigorous tests. A sharp bat to the side of the device sent it skittering across the table. A determined nudge with my nose against the volume slider blessedly muted the wocka-wocka-ing. But the joystick remained the most fascinating element. I could control the beetle's fate. I was no longer an observer; I was a god, a capricious master of this tiny, glowing universe. When the human returned and saw me delicately manipulating the joystick with one paw, he let out a laugh. Let him laugh. He thinks he's playing a game, but I know the truth. I'm engaged in advanced, long-distance tactical hunting. This little yellow box, I've decided, can stay. It provides a stimulating mental exercise between naps.
