Pete's Expert Summary
So, my human presented me with these... stiff, blue, folding squares. They call them a "Whitman Coin Folder." From what I can deduce, this is not a toy. It is a bafflingly pointless human contraption designed to hold shiny, non-jingly metal circles that they seem to value. It has no feathers, no crinkle, no strings, and most disappointingly, arrives *empty*. Its only potential redeeming quality is its reported size and flatness when opened, which might create a passably firm napping pedestal. The "federal blue" color would also contrast nicely with my distinguished gray and white tuxedo fur. Otherwise, it seems like an egregious waste of both money and my valuable time.
Key Features
- These folders accommodate the entire Walking Liberty Half Dollar issue set from 1916 – 1947
- Opens flat for easy viewing, and folds to 6" x 7 1/4" to easily fit on your bookshelf and is made of high-quality, durable materials with slots for each coin in the series, allowing for easy viewing and organization.
- Whitman coin folders are federal blue, with silver or copper design and lettering and is also designed with historical information and coin specifications for each year, making it a useful reference for collectors.
- The compact size of the folder makes it easy to store and transport, making it a great choice for both novice and experienced collectors of U.S. coins.
- No coins or bullion included with this item
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The package arrived with the dull thud of something profoundly uninteresting. The Human, however, cooed as they unwrapped it, revealing not one, but two identical blue rectangles. "For my Walking Liberty collection, Pete!" they chirped, as if that meant anything to me. I watched from my perch on the armchair, tail twitching in preemptive disappointment. The name "Whitman" was familiar; they produce items of stultifying stillness. The Human laid one open on the coffee table, a grid of perfectly empty circles staring up at the ceiling like the vacant eyes of a fool. I decided a closer inspection was warranted, if only to confirm my initial assessment of its worthlessness. I leaped silently onto the table, my paws making no sound. The folder smelled of paper, glue, and the faint, metallic ghost of its intended purpose. I nudged it with my nose. Nothing. I patted one of the empty holes with a soft paw. It was just a hole. My human interpreted this as interest. "See? Each spot is for a different year!" They then produced a single, shiny coin and, with a grunt of concentration, pressed it into one of the slots. It made a dissatisfying *thump*. The coin was now trapped, its potential for being skittered across the floor utterly neutralized. This was not a toy. This was a prison. A two-dimensional oubliette for potentially delightful floor-shinies. It was an insult to the very concept of play. I looked from the trapped coin to the rows of empty cells, a graveyard of future fun. I saw a vision of my human, hunched over this blue monstrosity for hours, meticulously entombing every last jingly object in the house, leaving me with nothing but dust bunnies and the occasional despairing moth. A profound sense of melancholy washed over me. I could not, in good conscience, endorse this tragedy. I turned my back on the folder, walked to the far end of the table, and pointedly began grooming my left shoulder, signaling my complete and utter disdain. This "toy" was worse than boring; it was an active threat to a stimulating environment. My final verdict: an abomination. The only thing it's good for is holding down papers in a strong breeze, and we don't even have strong breezes in here.
