Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and often baffling wisdom, has presented me with this. It appears to be a cardboard box, which is a promising start. Inside, however, are not soft things for shredding or crinkly things for batting, but smaller, flat cardboard rectangles featuring illustrations of large, noisy humans engaged in what I can only assume is a very aggressive form of pre-fight stretching. The brand, Panini, sounds like some sort of toasted sandwich, which is far more interesting than the contents of this box. The primary appeal here is the box itself, a perfectly adequate, if slightly small, vessel for a nap. The shiny "Prizm" cards within might offer a fleeting moment of distraction as they catch the light, but ultimately, this seems like a profound waste of resources that could have been spent on high-grade tuna or a feather wand with *real* feathers.
Key Features
- 2023 Panini WWE Prizm Trading Cards Blaster Box
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The Warden placed the cube on the coffee table with an air of reverence I usually reserve for myself. "Panini," the box declared. It sounded vaguely edible, but smelled of ink and disappointment. I observed from the arm of the sofa, my gray fur bristling with skepticism. This was not the tell-tale crinkle of a new bag of treats, nor the promising rattle of a jingle ball. This was the quiet thud of sedentary human amusement. He broke the seal and slid out several smaller, crinkly packets that shimmered under the lamp light. Now *that* sound had potential. It was the sound of secrets, the rustle of a captured moth. My interest was piqued, if only for a moment. The Warden tore open a packet and fanned out the contents. They were stiff, glossy portraits of humans in various states of theatrical distress. He held one up for my inspection. "Look, Pete! It's Cody Rhodes!" The human on the card was shouting, his posture a strange, rigid pose. I analyzed it with my expert eye. His form was terrible. A proper pounce requires a low center of gravity, a coiled spine, and silent paws. This creature was all sound and fury, signifying nothing but an inability to properly stalk a dust bunny. The Warden showed me another, a female with an absurdly long braid. "Bianca Belair!" he chirped. Her braid was clearly an inferior substitute for a proper tail. It lacked the expressive nuance to signal irritation, curiosity, or the imminent demand for dinner. He laid them all out in a grid, a pantheon of failure. Each "Prizm" card refracted the light, casting pathetic little rainbows on the ceiling. It was a gaudy, desperate plea for attention. I saw humans leaping from ropes—a clumsy, graceless fall, not the elegant aerial maneuvering required to reach the top of the bookshelf. I saw them holding up shiny belts, poor imitations of the satisfying weight of a captured mouse. This was not a toy. This was a collection of cautionary tales, a visual encyclopedia of how *not* to be a predator. My verdict was swift and silent. I stood, stretched languidly—demonstrating a lithe, superior form these card-humans could only dream of—and deliberately walked across the entire display. I didn't even grant them the dignity of a swat. As the Warden gathered up his scattered idols, I hopped into the now-empty "Blaster Box." The fit was snug, the corners firm. It would do for a ten-minute nap before I demanded a more worthy form of tribute. The box, a passable throne. The contents, an insult to my intelligence.
