Parker Brothers Funny Bones (A Game for People Who Love to Laugh) [Toy]

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The evening began with an ominous rustling. The humans, gathered in their typical pack formation in the main den, produced the box. I watched from my perch atop the bookcase, my gray tail giving a single, dismissive flick. The name "Funny Bones" was a misnomer from the start. I’ve crunched a few bird bones in my day—a satisfying, delicate affair—but what they pulled from the box were not bones at all. They were stiff, glossy rectangles of paper. My disappointment was a palpable, silent judgment that hung in the air, completely ignored. The ritual began. Two of them stood, and one awkwardly wedged a card between his knee and the other human’s knee. Their task, as far as I could decipher from their garbled shouts, was to waddle across the rug without dropping the card. It was a pathetic display, a mockery of the grace with which I navigate the same space. I let out a soft, guttural sigh. This was not a game; it was a bizarre, self-inflicted penance. They were punishing themselves for some unknown transgression, and their "laughter" was merely the hysterical sound of their sanity fracturing. As the night wore on, the contortions grew more ludicrous. A card was held between a chin and a shoulder. Another was balanced on a foot while hopping. I saw it all not as a game, but as a series of desperate attempts to communicate with me through the ancient art of interpretive dance. They were telling a story of struggle and awkwardness, a plea for the kind of effortless elegance that I embody. They were worshiping me, their furry god of poise, by highlighting their own profound lack of it. Finally, during a particularly chaotic maneuver involving a card held between two foreheads, it happened. The card slipped, fluttering through the air like a wounded moth. It landed silently on the rug, a few feet from my perch. The game paused. All eyes turned to me. I descended from the bookshelf with the deliberate slowness of a king approaching a fallen tribute. I sniffed the card once, then pinned it to the floor with a single, sharp claw, my gaze fixed on the human who dropped it. The message was clear: your offering is noted, and it is insufficient. I then turned my back on the whole affair and stalked away to groom my pristine white chest, leaving them to their foolish, graceless worship.