From what I can gather, my human has acquired yet another noisy distraction in a large, flat box. This one is called "Jumbo Hitster," and it appears to be a ritual where they pull out oversized cardboard rectangles, point their glowing hand-rectangles at them, and then are subjected to a barrage of sounds they call "music." The apparent goal is to arrange these cardboard squares in some sort of order based on the noises, a task so mind-numbingly dull it could only appeal to a species that willingly gets into a water-filled basin. The "Jumbo" size of the cards is a mildly interesting feature, as it might make them more satisfying to knock off a table. Otherwise, this seems like a significant infringement on my evening lap time and a waste of perfectly good silence, though the box itself shows promise as a high-quality napping receptacle.
The evening had been proceeding perfectly. I'd had my dinner of salmon paté, performed a meticulous grooming session on the plush living room rug, and was settling into a state of pre-nap bliss on the Human's lap. Then, it appeared. A large, garishly colored box was placed on the coffee table, interrupting the flow of my petting schedule. "Jumbo Hitster," the box declared. I narrowed my eyes. My initial assessment was purely architectural; the box seemed sturdy, with sharp corners and an appealingly spacious interior. A prime napping spot, without a doubt. The Human, however, committed the grave offense of *opening* it, spilling its contents onto the table. More cardboard. My disappointment was a tangible force in the room.
Soon, other humans arrived, and the ritual began. They each took a card. One of them pointed their phone at it, and a tinny, rhythmic shouting erupted from the device. The humans all started yelling names and numbers. It was an assault on the senses. They began laying the cards in a line on the floor, creating a timeline of auditory torture. I watched from my perch on the sofa arm, my tail twitching in irritation. This was chaos. This was undignified. But then I noticed the line of cards growing, creeping across the polished hardwood floor, an unguarded train of flat, tempting targets.
My curiosity, a beast that occasionally overrules my better judgment, took hold. I hopped down from the sofa with practiced silence. I approached the line of cards, feigning a casual stretch. The humans were too engrossed in their noisy guessing game to notice the sleek gray shadow moving in their midst. The cards were indeed large, their glossy finish catching the light. I selected one near the end of the line—a colorful square featuring a woman with impossibly large hair. With a delicate, almost surgical flick of my paw, I sent it skittering across the floor. It slid magnificently, coming to a rest under the armchair.
A small cheer erupted from one of the humans who had apparently guessed correctly, while another lamented my interference. They retrieved the card, but the test was complete. My verdict was in. The game itself is an abomination, a cacophony of sound and pointless human squabbling. It offers nothing to a refined feline palate. The components, however... the "Jumbo" cards... possess a superb glide factor and are eminently battable. The toy is a failure, but its pieces have potential. I will allow it to remain, on the condition that they understand any card placed on the floor is fair game. And, of course, the box is mine. Non-negotiable.
