See N Say Convicted of Fraud; Disdain Formally Recorded

It began, as most household disturbances do, with the Small Human. She, the clumsy acolyte of this new plastic faith, knelt before the colorful altar. I watched from my throne on the velvet armchair, tail giving a slow, metronomic twitch of disapproval. The object was a sunburst of illustrated creatures, a gaudy pantheon of beasts surrounding a central arrow. The Small Human grunted, her entire tiny body straining as she pulled the stout red lever. A whirring, grinding sound filled the room, like a dying clockwork bird, and the arrow began its frantic dance of fate. The plastic needle slowed, wobbled, and finally settled on the image of a creature I recognized as a pig. A moment of silence hung in the air, thick with anticipation. Then, the Oracle spoke. A tinny, compressed *oink* erupted from its hidden grilles, a sound so artificial it was an insult to swine everywhere. The Small Human shrieked with delight. I, however, was appalled. This was no pig. This was a digital ghost, a soulless echo. She pulled the lever again. A cow that sounded less like a bovine and more like a mournful foghorn. Then a lion whose "roar" couldn't scare a dust bunny. This wasn't an educational tool; it was a festival of bad impressions. The true test of my patience came when the Small Human managed to point the arrow to the music note. A jaunty, repetitive tune spilled out, a nightmare of synthesized cheerfulness about farms and jungles. I flattened my ears. This was an acoustic atrocity, a sonic crime against all creatures of refined taste. I could feel the vibrations through the armchair's legs, a low-grade hum that set my teeth on edge. The Small Human, meanwhile, bounced on her knees, a willing captive to the dreadful melody. Finally, she tired of her noisy ritual and crawled away to pursue a piece of lint with more focus than she had shown the toy. Silence, blessed and profound, returned. I descended from my perch and padded silently toward the abandoned oracle. I gave it a disdainful sniff. It smelled of plastic and faintly of baby biscuits. With a deliberate, practiced motion, I raised a single white paw and gave the lever a firm tap. It was beneath me to pull it, of course. My point was made. This machine was a fraud, a charlatan dealing in cheap sounds and cheaper music. I turned my back on it, leaped onto the sofa, and began to groom my pristine tuxedo chest, the very picture of unbothered superiority. It was not worthy.