Pete's Expert Summary
My human has procured another large, flat box called 'Cranium Classic' from a brand named Goliath, which sounds appropriately loud and clumsy. It seems to be a ritualistic device designed to make multiple bipedal creatures gather in one place to shout, wave their arms, and make crude drawings. The primary appeal, from my superior vantage point, lies not in the incomprehensible 'game' itself but in its component parts. The small die and plastic movers are prime candidates for being batted under the heaviest furniture, and the mesmerizing sand timer offers a moment of contemplative peace amidst the chaos. The true gem, however, is the lump of 'Cranium Clay,' a substance begging to be sculpted by a true artist—me. The rest is just loud, bipedal nonsense, a significant threat to my afternoon nap schedule.
Key Features
- The classic brain game is back and better than ever with 18 activities and over 800 different challenges
- Compete in teams and be ready to draw, sculpt, act, rhyme, or anything else that comes your way
- There’s something for everyone, from the artists to the brainiacs, so no game night will ever be the same!
- Be the first team to make it all the way around the board to win - recommended for 4 or more players, ages 12 and up
- Includes 1 Game Board, 2 Movers, 200 Cards, 1 Card Box, 8 Bonus Coins, 2 Markers, 2 Whiteboards, Cranium Clay, 1 Sand Timer, 1 Die, 1 Reference Sheet, and Complete Instructions
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The evening began, as many do, with an assault on the peace. The humans, my staff and their noisy associates, unboxed the cacophony machine. I watched from the arm of the leather chair, a silent, gray judge observing the proceedings. The board, a garish spiral of colors, was unfurled. Cards were shuffled with a sound like dry leaves being crushed. I was on the verge of a deep and satisfying sigh when one of them, the one whose laugh sounds like a startled goose, drew a card and was handed a purple lump of clay. His task, as far as I could decipher from their crude grunts, was to sculpt a "windmill." His thick fingers, utterly devoid of grace, mashed and prodded the material. What resulted was an affront to the very concept of form. It looked like a malformed tree that had been struck by lightning and then fallen on a small dog. The sheer artistic incompetence was painful to witness. My tail, a perfect barometer of my disdain, began to twitch. This could not stand. While they were busy shouting incorrect guesses—"cactus?" "airplane propeller?" "a sad flower?"—and the little sand timer dripped away their shame, I saw my opportunity. With the fluid silence that is my birthright, I slipped from the chair. A single, calculated leap brought me to the coffee table. The offending purple blob sat perilously close to the edge, abandoned in failure. It was an easy mark. A swift, precise hook with a single claw was all it took to send the lumpen failure tumbling to the rug below. Before they could even register my involvement, I was upon it. This was no toy to be idly batted. This was a medium. I nudged it with my nose, softening the harsh, clumsy edges left by the human. I pressed my paw into it, leaving a delicate, textured imprint far more interesting than any "windmill." I rolled it, nudged it, and finally, using a single extended claw, I carved a subtle, swirling line into its surface. It was abstract, yes, but it captured the essence of a fleeting thought, the whisper of a breeze through my whiskers. It was a masterpiece of minimalist expression. My human finally noticed. "Pete! What are you doing with the clay?" She scooped up my creation, turning it over in her hands. The goose-laughing one peered at it. "Hey, look! It's got a paw print and a scratch on it. I guess Pete thinks it's a piece of salmon." Salmon! The ignorance. The complete and utter lack of artistic sensibility. They couldn't comprehend the profound statement I had made. I sniffed dismissively, turned my back on them and their pathetic game, and leaped back to my chair. The clay was an instrument of genius, but utterly wasted on these simple-minded creatures. They were simply not ready for my art.