Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with a collection of hard, concave plastic shells and a strangely hollow sphere, all held together by flimsy-looking fabric straps. Apparently, this "JBM" brand believes that encasing a biped in these awkward contraptions is a form of "protection" for their clumsy outdoor flailing, which they call "sports." From my vantage point, it's a ridiculous waste of perfectly good napping time. The various pads are too lumpy to lie on, and they carry an offensive synthetic odor. The only piece with a sliver of potential is the helmet; its bowl-like shape suggests it could, in a pinch, serve as a mediocre, albeit un-plush, sleeping vessel. Otherwise, this is simply a monument to human fragility.
Key Features
- Suitable for Age 14+ years old
- The package includes knee pad x 2; elbow pad x 2; wrist guard x 2; helmet x 1
- The skateboard helmet is designed with multiple vent, adjustable dail and adjustable strap for proper fit
- Knee elbow pads and wrist guards are made of durable, soft EVA padded material with tough plastic plates
- Appropriate for inline skating; roller skating; skateboarding; scootering; skating and other outdoor sports
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ritual began with an unfamiliar scent—not the promising aroma of roasted chicken, but the sterile stench of new plastic and faint desperation. My human, with a grave expression I usually only see when the treat jar is empty, began strapping the black shells to their knees and elbows. Each click of a buckle sounded like the cocking of some strange weapon. They were assembling armor. I watched from atop the bookshelf, my tail a slow, metronomic question mark. Was this it? Was this the day they would finally confront the roaring beast that lives in the closet and devours dust bunnies? The final piece was the helmet, a dull crown placed upon their head. They were a warrior preparing for a grand, mythical battle. I followed at a respectful distance, a silent, tuxedoed squire ready to witness greatness. My human grabbed not a sword, but a long plank with wheels, and proceeded outside. My mind raced with possibilities. A joust with the loud, wheeled metal beasts that patrol the street? A territorial dispute with the squirrel syndicate that controls the oak tree? I crouched in the window, my paws kneading the sill in anticipation, expecting a display of dominance and prowess that would surely result in a tribute of fresh salmon. What I saw, however, shattered my heroic narrative. There was no battle. There was no foe. There was only my human, this supposed champion, wobbling down the pavement with all the grace of a newborn fawn. The armor, I realized with crushing disappointment, wasn't for attacking a fearsome enemy; it was to soften the blow of their own inevitable, clumsy contact with the ground. The "skateboard" was not a mighty steed but a catalyst for public embarrassment. They teetered, they flailed, and they nearly collided with a decorative garden gnome, which frankly showed more composure. When the human returned, sweaty and defeated, they unburdened themselves of the gear, dropping the helmet on the rug. The great warrior had returned from the field of battle with no spoils, only scrapes to their dignity. I padded over to the helmet, the hollow symbol of this failed campaign. I gave it a thorough, contemptuous sniff. It smelled of plastic and shame. With a single, dismissive push of my paw, I sent it rolling into the leg of the coffee table. It was not a toy. It was an emblem of weakness, utterly unworthy of my attention. I turned my back on it and went to find a sunbeam, a place of true power and warmth.
