Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with a box of tiny, brightly colored plastic rectangles from the brand LEGO. The intention, as far as my superior feline intellect can discern, is for small, clumsy humans to construct crude, inedible effigies of food. They can build a taco, an avocado, a cupcake, and other such things that are infinitely better in their real, edible forms. The primary appeal for a being of my refinement is not in the finished, blocky monstrosities, but in the individual components. These small bricks are perfectly sized for batting under the sofa, the refrigerator, and any other location that will require my staff to get on their hands and knees, providing me with both entertainment and a satisfying sense of control. The "no mess" claim on the box is a laughable challenge I am more than willing to accept.
Key Features
- PRETEND-PLAY BUILDING SET FOR KIDS – LEGO Classic Creative Food Friends is an imaginative build-and-play toy created for boys and girls ages 4 and up
- ASSORTED BRICKS AND FUN ELEMENTS – This playset includes colorful building bricks in a variety of shapes, plus special pieces, such as eyes, mouths and decorative elements
- CREATIVE FOOD TOY, NO MESS – Kids build a cupcake, ice cream, avocado and taco toy, rebuild into a cake with sprinkles, bubble-tea drink, pear and a panini, then launch into unlimited fun building their own pretend food
- STEP-BY-STEP GUIDE – A simple, intuitive guide is included to boost kids’ creative construction skills
- GIFT FOR AGES 4+ – Give this versatile set of quick-to-build models as a birthday, holiday or any-day gift to boys and girls who like food and fun characters
- BRICKS THAT BUILD SKILLS – LEGO Classic toys are filled with ideas and inspiration and allow parents to share building fun and developmental milestones with their kids
- DIMENSIONS – The cupcake model measures over 2.5 in. (6 cm) high, 1.5 in. (4 cm) wide and 0.5 in. (1 cm) deep, though kids can customize their models to be larger or smaller
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ceremony began, as it often does, with the crinkle of a plastic bag, a sound that promises either a new tribute for me or a profound disappointment. From my observation post atop the chenille armchair, I watched as my human, The Provider of Meals and Scratches, tipped a cascade of colorful, hard little bits onto the floor. They were sharp-edged and sterile, a far cry from the soft, yielding texture of a proper mouse. I twitched an ear in mild disdain but remained watchful. One must always be aware of new cult activities. With a focused hum, The Provider began the ritual. Two fingers, clumsy and large, plucked specific pieces from the pile and clicked them together with a series of soft snaps. A shape began to form. It was a crude, smiling cupcake, followed by a wide-eyed avocado. These were not toys; they were idols. My human was clearly constructing a pantheon of miniature, plastic deities, paying homage to the strange gods of the human pantry. The creature’s complete absorption in this task was fascinating in a pathetic sort of way. I narrowed my eyes, my gray tail giving a slow, deliberate thump-thump against the arm of the chair. Once the strange, smiling pantheon was complete—a taco, an ice cream, the avocado, and the cupcake, all staring blankly into the middle distance—The Provider slid them across the wood floor in my direction. An offering. I descended from my throne with the deliberate grace befitting my station, my white paws making no sound. I approached the plastic taco first, sniffing it delicately. It smelled of nothing. An empty promise. A false god. It offered no satisfying crunch, no savory scent, no nutritional value whatsoever. It was, in a word, an insult. But I am not without mercy, nor am I wasteful. While the idols themselves were worthless, their constituent parts were another matter entirely. My gaze fell upon a small, red, single-studded brick, a "sprinkle" from the cupcake effigy that had fallen away during the offering. It was perfect. With a single, elegant flick of my paw, I sent the tiny piece skittering across the floor, where it vanished into the dark, dusty abyss beneath the entertainment center. The human sighed, but I knew the truth. The offering had been deconstructed, its most valuable component secured for a future 3 a.m. game of "What's That Infuriating Rattling Sound?" The LEGO set, as a whole, was a failure. But this one tiny, lost piece? It was a masterpiece of potential chaos.
