Pete's Expert Summary
So, my human has presented me with this... box. It's a shiny metal tin, which has some potential as a resonant surface for me to knock things off of, or perhaps a place to sit if it's in a sunbeam. Inside, however, is a collection of brightly colored, flimsy paper rectangles. They call it a "game." I call it a distraction. Apparently, the point is for the humans to sit around a table and inflict "no mercy" on each other by making them pick up more of these useless cards. They shout things like "Wild Draw 10!" and "Stacking!" which seems to cause great distress. While the resulting human anguish could be mildly entertaining to observe, the cards themselves offer little in the way of pounce-ability or chew-worthiness. Frankly, it seems like a colossal waste of energy they could be using to open a can of tuna or dangle something with feathers.
Key Features
- UNO Show 'em No Mercy game adds 56 more cards, special rules and super-tough action cards for the most brutal edition of UNO ever!
- Tougher action cards, such as Skip Everyone, Wild Draw 6 and even Wild Draw 10 make game play merciless!
- The Stacking Rule lets players pass the penalty (Draw +2, +4, +6, +10) to the next player until whoever can't play has to take all the cards combined!
- Whenever a '7' or a '0' card is played, players must swap hands with another player!
- The Mercy Rule means that if any player gets 25+ cards in their hand, they are out of the game!
- Comes in a collectible, portable travel tin.
- Great to amp up the action on friends and family game nights, travels and parties!
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The evening began with a betrayal. My human, the one with the opposable thumbs best used for chin scratches, produced a sleek metal tin instead of my customary post-dinner treat. A metallic *clink* echoed as they opened it, revealing not salmon pâté, but a stack of stiff, colorful cards. They and their companions gathered around the low table in the living room, their faces illuminated by the overhead light, completely ignoring the masterpiece of feline grace and comfort that was me, loafed perfectly on the velvet armchair. Their chattering was an annoying buzz, punctuated by sharp, meaningless words: "Mercy Rule," "Swap Hands," "UNO." I flicked an ear in disgust and began a preemptive bath, a clear signal that their peasant games were beneath me. Their ritual grew louder. One of them, the loud one who always tries to pet my belly (a capital offense), groaned in theatrical agony. "A Wild Draw Ten? And you're *stacking* a Draw Four on it? That's fourteen cards! Fourteen!" He began scooping up a massive fan of the rectangles, his despair a palpable, delicious thing in the air. My bathing stopped. This was not a game of fun; it was a game of calculated suffering. A slow, rhythmic *thump, thump, thump* began as I swished my tail against the arm of the chair. My initial disdain was morphing into a clinical curiosity. What was the point of this self-inflicted paper-based misery? The turning point came with a flash of green. The small human slammed a card down, a '0' emblazoned on its face. "Zero! Everybody swap!" she shrieked with the glee of a tiny demon. In the ensuing chaos of passing hands, the loud one, clumsy in his frustration, fumbled his newly acquired cards. One, a bold yellow 'Skip', went airborne. It tumbled through the air, a silent, fluttering canary loosed from its cage. Time seemed to slow. This was no longer their game. It was my hunt. I launched myself from the armchair, a silent, gray-and-white missile. My paws, usually reserved for kneading the softest blankets, became instruments of predatory perfection. I intercepted the card a foot from the floor, batting it with a satisfying *thwack*. It skittered across the polished wood, and I was on it in a flash, pinning the flimsy prey beneath a single, regal paw. The room fell silent, then erupted in laughter. They had forgotten their cruel game, their attention now rightfully where it belonged: on me. I gave the card a final, contemptuous bite. The game itself is a fool's errand, but I must admit, the chaos it generates provides excellent opportunities for a cat of my caliber to demonstrate his superior skills. The tin, I have also decided, will make for a fine new water bowl. Conditionally approved.
