Pete's Expert Summary
My human has brought another brightly colored box into my domain, this one proclaiming itself to be a "Cranium." From what I can gather, it is a ritualistic device designed to make groups of loud bipeds engage in various forms of organized buffoonery, from shouting answers to questions I could have deduced in my sleep, to drawing crude pictograms with smelly sticks. The entire affair seems an egregious waste of perfectly good napping energy. However, the mention of a "Cranium Capsule" for storage is intriguing—a new, high-sided container could prove to be a superior sleeping vessel. More importantly, it contains something called "Cranium Clay," a malleable substance that, if left unguarded, could provide a far more satisfying tactile experience than any of the nonsense printed on those cards. The game itself is for them, but the components... the components might just be for me.
Key Features
- Definitive new edition of the smash-hit party game Cranium
- Custom Cranium Capsule elevates gameplay and stores all components neatly.
- Featuring 800 all-new questions across 18 diverse activities
- Includes Cranium Clay and dry-erase whiteboard to craft your original works of art.
- New activities take their place alongside classic favorites from the original game
- 4 or More Players
- Ages 12+
- 45-Minute Gameplay
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The evening began with the usual ceremony: the gathering of the tribe, the pouring of fermented grape juice into precarious glass stems, and the unveiling of the new offering upon the low table in the center of the room. This "Cranium Capsule," as they called it, was a sleek, purple container. I watched from my perch on the armchair, feigning disinterest, as my human pried it open. A jumble of colorful board pieces, cards, and other trinkets spilled out. My tail gave a single, involuntary twitch. Among the detritus was a small, sealed tub. Clay. My instincts hummed. The game, as I predicted, was an assault on the senses. There was shouting, wild gesturing, and one of the larger males attempting to hum a tune so poorly it sounded like a distressed vole. I was about to retire to the bedroom in disgust when the clay was finally brought into play. My human’s friend, a woman with jangly bracelets, was instructed to sculpt a "windmill." She fumbled with the purple lump, her clumsy fingers mashing it into a shape that resembled neither a mill nor wind. It looked, to my discerning eye, like a particularly sad tree that had given up on life. Frustrated after her team failed to guess her lumpy creation, she set the misshapen sculpture on the edge of the table and turned her attention back to the noisy board. Her mistake. The clay windmill sat there, an abandoned monument to human ineptitude. It called to me. In one fluid movement, I hopped down from the chair, my paws making no sound on the rug. I stalked forward, belly low to the ground, my gray-and-white form a shadow in the lamplight. The humans were now arguing about a film I’d slept through three times. Perfect. With a flick of my paw, the sad little tree-thing tumbled to the floor. It didn't shatter. It landed with a soft, satisfying *thump*. I nudged it with my nose. It had a pleasing density, a neutral, earthy scent. I batted it again, sending it skittering across the hardwood where it collected a satisfying bit of dust. This was a proper toy—silent, unpredictable, and entirely mine. As they drew something nonsensical on a whiteboard, I picked up my lumpy prize and trotted off to stash it beneath the sofa with my collection of stolen bottle caps and a particularly fine feather. Let them have their game; I had just won the only prize that mattered. The clay is worthy. The rest is just noise.
