Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in their infinite and often misguided quest to find entertainment that doesn't involve stroking my magnificent gray fur, has procured a loud, circular object called "Tapple." It appears to be a device for them to shout at. They select a topic from a small, flimsy card, press a button that unleashes a horrid ticking sound, and then proceed to slap other buttons while yelling words. From my esteemed position on the velvet armchair, it seems like a dreadful amount of effort for very little reward. The only potential points of interest are the small, bat-able letter tabs that make a somewhat satisfying *click*, and the potential for the game to be abandoned on the floor, where its roundness might lend itself to a brief, undignified chase before my nap.
Key Features
- The Original and Authentic Version of the Sensational Party Game
- Get ready for the award-winning fast-paced word game that gives family game night a rush of excitement as players compete to beat the timer!
- HOW TO PLAY - Choose a card with a category, press the timer, and shout out words related to the category that start with a certain letter. Once the related word is announced, press the corresponding letter tab.
- Take it on the go and great to play anywhere - the portable Tapple wheel stores all of the category cards for easy carry and storage.
- Includes 1 Tapple wheel with built-in timer, 36 cards (144 categories), rules
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The cacophony had ceased. The giant primates had finished their ritual of yelling at the Red Circle and retreated to the glowing rectangle room, leaving their strange new altar on the rug. I descended from my throne, my paws silent on the plush fibers, drawn by a grudging curiosity. The object smelled of plastic and their faintly desperate excitement. Its most prominent feature, a large red button in the center, held no appeal. I am a creature of subtlety; I do not simply *push*. I orchestrate. My attention was drawn to the alphabet arranged around the perimeter. The letters, stark white on black, were like a secret code. 'W' for the warm window sill where the sun pools so delightfully. 'S' for the spot on the sofa that has been molded perfectly to my form. 'F' for the food dish, a sacred location of utmost importance. With a tentative paw, I extended a single, perfect claw and depressed the 'F' tab. It yielded with a crisp, definitive *thwack*. A sound of confirmation. An acknowledgment of my domain. This was no mere game. The humans, in their simplicity, saw categories and words. I saw a map, a schematic of my kingdom. I began my nightly strategic planning, moving with purpose around the wheel. *Thwack*. 'C' for the high ground on the cat tree. *Thwack*. 'B' for the Big Human's bed, the softest territory in the entire house. Each press of a letter was a claim, a silent declaration of ownership. The humans could have their frantic, timed nonsense. I had repurposed their toy into a command console for my empire. I ignored the timer button entirely; the frantic ticking is an insult to the dignified passage of time. My patrol routes, my napping zones, my ambush points for the marauding dust bunnies—all were now logged in this device. I finished my survey by pressing the 'P' tab. P for Pete. The ruler. The silent observer. The true master of the game. Yes, this plastic wheel was worthy. Not for the reasons its creators intended, but for the far superior purpose I had devised for it. It could stay.