Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to have acquired yet another collection of stiff paper rectangles in a box. This one is from a brand with a name I find both deeply offensive and attention-grabbing: "Exploding Kittens." It’s apparently a game called "Horrible Therapist," where the bipedal apes arrange cards to form some sort of comic strip about their many, many anxieties. While the idea of them distracting themselves for fifteen-minute intervals is appealing—offering a window for me to steal the warmest spot on the sofa—the promised "ugly laughing" sounds disruptive. The primary value, as always, lies not in the "game" itself, but in the structural integrity of the box for napping purposes and the potential for a few stray cards to become excellent skitter-toys for batting under the fridge.
Key Features
- How to Play: WHO KNEW THERAPY COULD BE SO FUNNY? In this adult card game you’ll create a comic about therapy with a Question, Answer, and a Treatment. Whoever puts down the funniest Treatment card wins a point. The first to 3 points wins. It's a fun and hysterical addition to your party card games collection.
- What's Included: ENDLESS LAUGHS & REPLAYABILITY. With 80 Question Cards, 158 Answer Cards, and 200 Treatment Cards, this game is different every time you play. This makes it a popular choice among adult card games and card games for adults, offering endless replayability for every game night.
- Who's It For? THE PERFECT ADULT PARTY GAME for 3-8 players aged 17+. Can you get through a round without ugly laughing? This is a must-have for adult games for game night and a fantastic addition to your collection of party card games.
- Where to Play: WANT TO BREAK THE ICE AT PARTIES? This is a card game for adults that’s great for pregaming, large gatherings, road trips, vacations, or for giving as a gift to anyone who appreciates a funny card game (or who needs therapy!). Perfect for all adult party games and games for adults.
- Our Story: UNIQUE ART FROM A VIRAL WEBCOMIC. Each card is written and illustrated by The Oatmeal, the brain behind the internet’s favorite comics and a cofounder of Exploding Kittens which became the most backed Kickstarter campaign of all time.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The new box arrived with the usual fanfare—my human shaking it near her ear, a sound I find deeply primitive. The words "Exploding Kittens" were emblazoned on the side, and I issued a low, cautionary growl from my perch on the armchair. A threat is a threat, no matter how stylishly illustrated. She called her pack, and they gathered around the low table in the living room, their clumsy hands fumbling with the pristine white container. They were about to engage in a "therapy session," they announced. An utter farce. I am the only therapist this house needs. My methods are proven: a sudden, silent appearance on a lap; a direct, unblinking stare that says, "Your problems are trivial, now provide the scritches"; and the occasional tactical hairball on a new rug to remind them of life’s fleeting beauty. They began laying out the cards, their faces illuminated by the ghastly light of the tall lamp. The cards were covered in crude drawings of wobbly, distressed-looking humans, a style I suppose an uncoordinated kitten might achieve if given charcoal. They laid down a "Question" card, then an "Answer." I watched from the shadows, a silent, gray-furred adjudicator. The entire process was a mockery of my life’s work. They were attempting to articulate their neuroses through pre-printed prompts, a pale and clumsy imitation of the elegant, non-verbal communication we share when I lead her to my empty food bowl. The climax of each round was the reveal of the "Treatment" card. The suggestions were horrifyingly inept. "Shave one eyebrow to look tougher." "Replace their blood with gravy." Amateurs. Fools. Do they not understand that the universal cure for human distress is the gravitational pull of a 12-pound cat settling onto their chest, pinning their anxieties down with the sheer force of comfort? My purr is a finely tuned instrument of healing, not some clumsy joke about bees. One of the humans played a card, and the entire group erupted in the promised "ugly laughing"—a series of sharp, startling barks that rustled my whiskers in the most unpleasant way. As one of them gasped for air, a single card was knocked from the table, fluttering to the floor like a wounded bird. I slunk from my observation post, my tuxedo-patterned chest puffed with professional indignation. The card depicted a creature vaguely resembling a cat, wearing spectacles and looking judgmental. It seemed to be the only sensible image in the entire set. I gave the card a firm, deliberate tap with my paw, sending it skittering into the darkness beneath the sofa—my consultation fee. The game was a noisy, undignified affair, a poor substitute for true feline therapy. But the box was empty now, and its crisp, white walls looked exceptionally comfortable. I suppose, for that alone, it was a worthy acquisition.
