Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to have acquired a large, colorful box filled with what I can only describe as implements for organized human absurdity. They call it "Cranium." From my observations, it involves them gathering in loud groups, frantically drawing unidentifiable shapes, contorting their bodies in alarming ways, and—most curiously—molding a strange, pungent dough they call "Cranium Clay." While the sheer amount of chaotic energy expended seems like a monumental waste of time that could be better spent stroking my magnificent gray fur, I will concede that the small plastic game pieces might possess a certain... battable quality. However, the risk of being startled from a nap by a sudden shriek of "Charades!" likely outweighs the fleeting joy of sending a tiny cone skittering under the sofa.
Key Features
- Cranium is the version of the smash-hit, multi-activity game Cranium made for kids and parents
- Teams work together to race around the board by completing a mix of 14 hilarious activities,
- Now with all new components, including 600 all-new cards and flexible length of play
- Whether you are an aspiring actor, artist, data hound or wordsmith, Cranium gives you and your team a moment to shine
- Cranium Edition gives everybody from Grandma to Junior the chance to shine
- Includes performing wacky stunts, sculpting with Cranium Clay, sketching, acting, and more
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The evening began with an unwelcome ritual: the summoning of Other Humans. My primary human and her chosen companion, a lanky fellow who always smells faintly of rain and poor decisions, unfurled the brightly-colored board upon the floor, my floor. I watched from the arm of the sofa, my tail giving a single, contemptuous flick. They divided into "teams," a concept I find primitive, and began their noisy game. I was on the verge of retreating to the bedroom for a proper sulk when it appeared. The clay. The lanky one was tasked with sculpting. He pawed at the purple lump with far less grace than I would use on a simple patch of sunbeam. His brow furrowed. His tongue poked out. The resulting creation was a travesty. It was meant to be a "dolphin," according to my human's triumphant guess, but to my expert eye, it was clearly a misshapen, neurologically damaged fish, frozen in a silent scream. It was pathetic. It was art. And it was mine. My mission became clear. This poor, doughy creature could not be left to the mercy of these buffoons, to be squashed back into the container at the game's conclusion. It deserved a place of honor, perhaps beneath the credenza where I keep my collection of "liberated" bottle caps. I waited, a predator in a tuxedo. My moment came when my human was forced to perform a "wacky stunt," which involved hopping on one foot while humming. With all eyes on her clumsy display, I executed a flawless descent from the sofa, silent as a shadow. I approached the board with purpose. A single, delicate tap of my paw sent the purple fish-abomination tumbling onto the rug. I deftly scooped it into my mouth—the texture was unnervingly soft, the taste vaguely chemical—and vanished into the darkness of the hallway. I heard a distant, "Hey, where'd the dolphin go?" but I was already gone, a ghost with my prize. The game itself is a fool's errand, but I must admit, as a catalyst for acquiring unique, if slightly malformed, sculptures? It has its merits. The purple fish now rests comfortably in my private gallery.
