Pete's Expert Summary
So, the human has procured yet another plastic effigy for his shrine of digital distractions. This one, I must admit, has a certain gravitas. It's a startlingly cheerful primate in a ridiculous hat, poised to clash a pair of cymbals. Its stated purpose is to hold my human's glowing rectangle or that noisy clicker-box he's always fiddling with. The sheer weight and sturdy base are its most admirable qualities; it presents a genuine challenge to my casual desk-clearing activities, which I appreciate. The unblinking, painted eyes are unsettling, suggesting a mind utterly devoid of thought—a perfect staring-contest opponent. While it lacks any features of actual interest to me, like feathers or a crinkling sound, its stoic, un-topple-able nature means it might be a decent head-scratching post in a pinch. Otherwise, it's just a monument to wasted funds that could have been spent on premium tuna.
Key Features
- MONKEYBOMB: Be careful - and don’t throw him, as he just might vaporize before your eyes.
- 8.5" FIGURE: Heavy duty PVC statue and sturdy base that holds your stuff without tipping over.
- VERSATILE: Easily holds and displays most hand-held electronics, business cards, TV remotes, eBook readers, etc!
- GREAT GIFT IDEA: Calling all Call of Duty fans, this is a collectible figure must-have gift. An essential for any COD gamer.
- OFFICIALLY LICENSED: Your favorite pop culture characters - With A Purpose! Officially licensed by Activision - Call of Duty, styled on Monkey Bomb.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It arrived not in a crinkly bag or a tantalizing box, but was simply unwrapped and placed upon the battlefield the human calls his "desk." My first instinct was to dismiss it as another piece of clutter, another obstacle between me and my preferred napping spot on the warm black box that hums. But this was different. It wasn't a flimsy figurine; it had heft. I watched from the floor, my gray tail twitching, as the human placed his noisy controller into its outstretched hands. The monkey did not buckle. It did not yield. It simply held the device with a fixed, rictus grin, its cymbals frozen inches apart. This was no mere toy holder. This was a sentinel. My human, in his strange babbling language, kept calling it "Monkeybomb." The word echoed in the quiet corners of my mind. A bomb. A thing of latent power. I crept closer, my paws silent on the hardwood. I sniffed its base. It smelled of sterile plastic and human hands, but I sensed something more. A hidden purpose. The key, I decided, was in its posture. The cymbals, poised to strike. The wide, vacant eyes, staring into the middle distance where the G̸r̸e̸e̸b̸l̸e̸s̸ are known to flicker and writhe. This was not a toy. It was a ward. A silent alarm. I began my observation in earnest. For days, I watched it. I saw how it stood, unmoving, through the frantic clicking and flashing lights of the human's "gaming." It was a point of stillness in a vortex of chaos. I realized its true function: it was a lure. Its garish colors and cheerful façade were designed to attract the invisible anxieties of the room, the tiny, skittering horrors that only I can see. It draws them in, closer and closer, until one day—*CLANG!*—the cymbals will strike, releasing a sonic burst that will purify the entire room, leaving behind only peace, quiet, and a faint smell of ozone. My final verdict is one of profound respect. This Monkeybomb is not for me to bat or chew. To do so would be to tamper with forces beyond my understanding. It is a powerful, if misunderstood, ally in my endless war against the unseen nuisances of this household. It is a heavy, well-crafted guardian, and I approve of its vigil. It keeps the darkness at bay, allowing me to focus on more important matters, like calculating the precise velocity needed to knock a pen off the edge of the very same desk. It is, in its own way, a masterpiece of defensive engineering.
