A photo of Pete the cat

Pete's Toy Box: Parker Brothers

Hasbro Gaming Retro Series Clue 1986 Edition Board Game, Classic Mystery Game for Kids, Family Board Games for 3-6 Players, Ages 8+ (Amazon Exclusive)

By: Hasbro Gaming

Pete's Expert Summary

My human, in a sudden and alarming rejection of the glowing Warm Box, has procured this... *thing*. It is a large, flat square from the prolific "Hasbro Gaming" monolith, which I understand to be a purveyor of human time-wasting rituals. They call it "Clue," a "Retro 1986 Edition," which to my ears just means it smells faintly of an attic. Its purpose appears to be to make all the giants in the house gather around a single table and shout the names of colors and rooms, effectively creating a fortress of legs that blocks my access to the kitchen. The board itself, once unfurled, is a passable, if somewhat busy, lounging surface. However, it comes with an infestation of tiny metal trinkets and flimsy paper cards that seem designed to be either swallowed or, more appealingly, batted into oblivion under the heaviest piece of furniture. While the central activity is a clear waste of their time, the ancillary components show a glimmer of potential for a far more sophisticated, independent form of play.

Key Features

  • Ditch the TV, and re-ignite family night with the get-together amusement of a Hasbro game
  • Party it up, and surprise guests at your next event with laugh-out-loud game from Hasbro Gaming
  • Nostalgic tabletop gameplay meets interactive digital content for an immersive gaming experience
  • Hasbro Gaming imagines and produces games that are perfect for every age, taste, and event

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The evening began with a sacrilege. The TV, my beloved source of flickering lights and ambient warmth, was left dark. Instead, my human ceremoniously placed the box on the coffee table, a somber navy blue rectangle promising "Classic Mystery." A crime, they announced with theatrical gravity, had been committed in my very house. My ears, which had been blissfully folded back in a pre-nap configuration, perked forward. A crime? An unsanctioned event? An intruder? This was a matter of household security, and thus, my direct concern. The humans, with their loud voices and clumsy fingers, were clearly not equipped to handle such a delicate investigation. They needed a professional. With a silent leap, I landed in the center of the unfolding "board," a crude map of my domain. I surveyed the suspects, a garish collection of colorful pawns. I sniffed Colonel Mustard; he smelled of stale crackers. I gave Miss Scarlet a dismissive flick of my tail; too flashy, no subtlety. My gaze fell upon the collection of miniature metal weapons. A tiny revolver, a clumsy wrench, a laughably small dagger. Amateurs. My attention was drawn to one piece in particular: the Rope. It was small, coiled, and possessed a certain elegant simplicity. It wasn't just a potential murder weapon; it was a perfect string. As the giants began their bumbling procedural, rolling their noisy plastic cubes and stomping their pawns from room to room, I conducted my own, far more nuanced, inquiry. I ignored their shouted, illogical accusations ("It was Professor Plum in the Billiard Room!"). I stalked the perimeter of the board, my white paws silent on the glossy surface. I padded into the 'Conservatory,' a room I know intimately as "the place with the dying fern." I glided through the 'Hall,' my primary raceway after midnight. I was not playing their game; I was reasserting my sovereignty and searching for clues they were too dull-witted to notice, such as the draft coming from under the 'secret passage' slit in the cardboard. Finally, they cornered a suspect. The conclusion was loud, abrupt, and, in my opinion, deeply unsatisfying. They had missed the entire point. As my human began to gather the pieces, their attention diverted, I saw my chance. The true mystery was never about the fictional Mr. Boddy. It was about liberating the most promising asset from this temporary distraction. With a swift, practiced hook of my claw, I snagged the tiny, metallic Rope. I snatched it from the board and bolted, a gray-and-white shadow disappearing under the armchair. The humans could have their hollow victory. I had secured the evidence. And later tonight, when all is quiet, that little rope and I have a date with justice under the dining room table. A most worthy acquisition.

Parker Brothers Sorry! Sliders

By: Parker Brothers

Pete's Expert Summary

It appears my human has acquired another noisy, flat-surfaced contraption from the venerable 'Parker Brothers' institution, which typically specializes in creating things for them to shout at. This one, 'Sorry! Sliders,' seems to be a variation of shuffleboard, but with small, brightly colored pawns that are meant to be slid across a two-sided board. While the complex rules and the humans' inevitable arguments over 'scoring' are a colossal waste of my valuable napping time, the true potential lies in the 'sliders' themselves. They are small, lightweight, and almost certainly possess a satisfying skittering quality when batted across a hardwood floor. The 'customizable tracks' are merely a pre-packaged obstacle course for my amusement. It might be worth a flick of the paw, if only to see one of these pieces disappear under the couch.

Key Features

  • SORRY! SLIDERS is the hot new way to play SORRY! --with a twist!
  • Lots of ways to customize tracks and boards!
  • Aim, slide, collide and score to win!
  • 4 ways to play on 2-sided board!
  • Family game night fun for the whole family!

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The evening’s ritual began with an unsettling crinkle of cardboard. From my perch atop the velvet armchair, I watched as The Hand laid out the arena. It was a glossy, two-sided battlefield, sectioned off with plastic rails that clicked together. Then came the combatants: stout little pawns with polished, rounded bottoms. They were arrayed in squads of four—red, blue, green, and yellow. The humans called it a “game,” but I recognized it for what it was: a crude simulation of territorial skirmishes. They were preparing for a tournament of some kind, their clumsy fingers setting up the track. Their first attempts were laughably inept. They would flick a pawn, sending it careening into a wall or skittering feebly to a halt in the no-man's-land between scoring zones. There was no finesse, no understanding of momentum or friction. They were brutes, relying on sheer force. I, on the other hand, saw the potential. I watched the yellow pawn, slid by the smaller human, as it glided with a whisper-soft *shhhhhhh* before being violently knocked aside by a blue one. The *clack* of the collision was sharp, an insult to the art of motion. This was not a game of force; it was a dance, and these oafs were trampling all over the dance floor. An opportunity presented itself. The Hand had just slid a red pawn, a particularly arrogant-looking piece, to rest precariously close to the edge of the board. Both humans were distracted, arguing over a previous "collision." This was my moment. I did not pounce. Pouncing is for amateurs. I flowed from the armchair, a silent, gray-and-white shadow. I ascended the side of the coffee table with the practiced ease of a master. My paw, a tool of surgical precision, extended. I did not bat or swipe. I made contact with the red pawn, applying the exact pressure needed—a gentle, guiding push. It slid. Oh, it slid beautifully. It sailed off the edge of the board in a perfect, silent arc, landing on the hardwood floor with a muted *tock*. It then skittered, under its own glorious momentum, directly under the heavy oak bookshelf. A place of no return. The humans erupted in confused chatter. "Where did the red one go?" they cried, their game ruined. I was already back in my armchair, meticulously grooming a single, perfect white whisker. The game itself is a childish mess, but the 'sliders' possess a sublime quality. They respond to a master's touch. Worthy, but only when liberated from the clumsy hands of their so-called owners.

Deluxe Pit by Winning Moves Games USA, Loud and Raucous Party Game for 3 to 8 Players, Ages 7 and Up

By: Winning Moves

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has procured a "game" which appears to be a box of thin, stiff squares of processed tree and a small, shiny metal dome. Based on my observations from a comfortable distance, the intended purpose involves the Tall Ones gathering in a circle, generating an immense amount of disruptive noise, and frantically waving the paper squares at one another as if they were particularly unappetizing birds. The only redeeming feature is the metal dome, which emits a surprisingly crisp "ding" when struck, a sound that briefly cuts through the cacophony. The rest of it—the shouting, the focus on things like "Wheat" and "Barley"—seems a profound waste of energy that could be better spent admiring my glorious gray tuxedo coat or opening a can of tuna.

Key Features

  • DING, DING, DING! Let the games begin! Players rush to corner the market on any 1 commodity and get to ring the closing bell!
  • A TRUE AMERICAN CLASSIC: Originally created in 1904 by Parker Brothers, the game of Pit has been played by countless millions of people in its more than 100 year existence!
  • JUST LIKE WALL STREET: Well - OK - not exactly - but once the action begins, it's a frenetic and loud game where everyone is shouting at the same time, holding up cards to trade. The energy is electric!
  • SHHH - DON'T SAY A WORD: If you're not a fan of the wild and crazy shouting on a stock trading floor, we include rules for a SILENT game too. It's quite challenging.
  • COMMODITY FEVER: Wheat, Sugar, Soybeans, Oranges, Oats, Corn, Coffee, Barley. Pick your favorite and go for it!

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The evening began with a violation of domestic tranquility. The box was opened, and the noise began. Not a gradual crescendo, but an immediate, full-throated assault of "TRADE! TRADE! TWO! I NEED TWO!" It was utter chaos, an auditory nightmare that sent ripples through my water bowl. I retreated to the top of the bookshelf, a monarch surveying a revolution from a safe parapet, my tail twitching in profound disapproval. They were trading cards with crude drawings of plants. Plants! As if anyone would trade a perfectly good sunbeam for a picture of "Oats." Amateurs. Then I saw it. The bell. It sat in the center of the table, gleaming under the lamp light, a silent, potent arbiter of their madness. Each time a human completed their bizarre collection of farm-themed rectangles, they would greedily smack the bell, producing a sharp, clean *DING* that momentarily silenced the others. It was a sound of power. A sound of finality. A sound I understood. It was the sound the treat container makes when it is opened. I decided, with the quiet certainty of my kind, that the bell must be mine. My descent was a whisper of gray fur against mahogany. I moved like a shadow, weaving between legs and under the table, my plan crystallizing. The humans were too absorbed in their shouting to notice the predator in their midst. One of them—the one who smells faintly of desperation and too much coffee—shrieked "CORNER ON COFFEE!" and reached for the bell. That was my moment. As his hand descended, I launched myself onto the table with the grace of a striking viper. My paw, a soft but determined instrument, intercepted his. I did not strike him. I simply placed my paw firmly atop the bell. The shouting ceased. All eyes turned to me. I stared back, my gaze a silent, unblinking challenge. I was now the market maker. I held the power of the *DING*. I gave a low, rumbling meow, the feline equivalent of a hostile takeover bid. The human slowly retracted his hand. I had won. The game, in its intended form, is a ridiculous and noisy affair. But as a platform for asserting my dominance and acquiring a shiny new bauble to bat under the sofa later? In that, it is a resounding success. I approve, but only on my terms.

Parker Brothers Clue Classic Detective Game

By: Hasbro

Pete's Expert Summary

My Human seems to believe our household is lacking in "logic," a conclusion I could have reached simply by observing him try to open a can of my food. He has presented a flat, foldable square which is apparently a crude map of a lesser estate. This "Clue" game, from a brand named Hasbro, involves loud talking, pointing, and the movement of tiny, colorful human-shaped pegs. The supposed appeal is that it builds the mind, but my mind is already a finely tuned instrument of nap-scheduling and sunbeam-analysis. The only components of mild interest are the small, metallic weapon tokens. They have a certain weight to them, a certain glint, that suggests they would skitter beautifully across the hardwood floor before disappearing under the heaviest piece of furniture. The rest is just a noisy, time-consuming distraction from my own, far more important, investigations.

Key Features

  • For the family
  • Share with party guests
  • Builds logic skills

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The evening began with the usual disruptive ceremony. The Great Unfolding. The board, a garish parody of a proper manor, was laid upon the low table in the den. My humans, joined by two others I barely tolerated, huddled around it, their faces illuminated in the lamplight like some strange, primitive tribe. They chattered about a "Mr. Boddy" and his untimely demise. A tragedy, I’m sure, but not one that affected the schedule of my dinner, so my interest was minimal. I watched from my perch on the arm of the sofa, a silent, gray arbiter of their foolishness, until I saw it. In the center of the board, they placed a small, yellow paper sleeve. The "Case File," they called it. It lay there, smug and sealed, holding all the answers. While they fumbled with their little pawns and made baseless accusations ("It was Professor Plum, in the Library, with the Candlestick!"), my entire being focused on that envelope. It was the sleeping mouse, the cornered beetle, the one thing in the room that held a secret worth knowing. The humans’ game was a pointless exercise in deduction; my game was one of stealth and acquisition. I began my descent from the sofa, a flowing shadow of liquid grace. My movements were timed to the clumsy thud of the dice on the table, my soft paws making no sound on the rug. I executed the classic "I’m Just Casually Stretching" maneuver near the table leg, a feint to lull them into a false sense of security. My Human, the one called "Miss Scarlett," was busy scribbling on a tiny sheet of paper. Her attention was diverted. Now was the time. In a single, fluid motion, I was on the table. A gasp from one of the guests. I ignored it. My eyes were on the prize. I gave a token sniff to the tiny lead pipe—a decent weight, but not my target—before I gently, deliberately, hooked a single, perfect claw into the corner of the yellow envelope. With a deft flick of my paw, I slid it off the board and onto the floor. Pandemonium. "Pete, no!" a voice cried, but it was too late. I had secured the asset. I snatched the envelope in my mouth and dashed under the coffee table, a triumphant detective who had solved the case before the amateurs had even chosen their suspects. I proceeded to thoroughly perforate the "Case File" with my teeth, extracting the ultimate truth: paper, when properly shredded, is far more entertaining than any game. The answer wasn't Colonel Mustard. The answer was that the best secrets are the ones you steal yourself. A worthy endeavor, even if the prize itself was ultimately disposable.

Parker Brothers Monopoly Deluxe Anniversary Edition

By: Parker Brothers

Pete's Expert Summary

So, my human has procured another large, flat box filled with tiny, losable pieces. They call it the "Monopoly Deluxe Anniversary Edition," which I understand to be a ritualistic simulation of acquiring property and debt. The humans will sit around this colorful map for what I can only assume is an eternity, moving little golden idols of themselves—including a new, rather shiny train—and exchanging flimsy paper rectangles. The primary appeal for me, of course, are the small, wooden houses which seem perfectly sized for batting under the sofa. While the golden tokens are an upgrade from the usual dull pewter, the whole affair seems to be an elaborate, time-consuming argument-generator that will inevitably delay my dinner. It is a distraction of the highest order, and I am not impressed.

Key Features

  • A new Anniversary token, the special MONOPOLY train, long recognized as a symbol of MONOPOLY
  • Ten MONOPOLY tokens, issued in a beautiful gold-tone finish, allowing up to ten people to join in the fun!
  • The charming wooden houses and hotels of MONOPOLY, just like the original version.
  • A new and specially designed Banker's tray and Flip-Throguh Title Deed card holder that helps make banking and property deed selection faster and more efficient.

A Tale from Pete the Cat

I watched from my velvet throne—a cushion on the armchair—as the humans unfurled the great paper prophecy. It was not a game board to my eyes, but a scrying map of their own strange world. They huddled over it, their faces illuminated by the overhead light, like acolytes preparing for a complex and troubling rite. Each chose a golden totem to represent their spirit in this paper realm: the Human Who Feeds Me chose the Top Hat, a symbol of her aspirations; her loud companion chose the new golden Train, an omen of journeys I would not be invited on. The ritual began with the rattling of sacred bones—two small, spotted cubes—and a slow, clockwise procession around the perimeter of the prophecy. I watched, my tail a slow metronome of judgment, as they landed on colored squares and exchanged their paper talismans. I was the silent oracle, interpreting the true meaning of their actions. When the Top Hat landed on "St. Charles Place," it was a clear sign she should be stroking me. When the Train paid the "Luxury Tax," it was cosmic punishment for buying the cheap kibble last week. The flimsy "Chance" cards were edicts from a capricious god they foolishly obeyed without question. Then, the ritual took a dark turn. The Train totem landed upon the dreaded space, the one marked "Go to Jail." The human was not merely inconvenienced; his spirit-avatar was physically seized and cast into the corner cage. A shiver went down my spine, ruffling my tuxedo fur. This was no game of fun and finance. This was a powerful curse, a binding spell played out on a paper dimension. The little wooden houses they erected were not charming homes, but anchors of green wood, shackling their souls to these cursed plots of land. I narrowed my eyes. These foolish humans, laughing and shouting about mortgages and monopolies, had no idea what forces they were trifling with. They were imprisoning each other, bankrupting their friends, and meddling with fates better left undisturbed, all for a stack of colorful paper. I decided then and there that this box was a vessel of bad energy. It was not merely unworthy of my time; it was a danger to the very stability of my household. At my first opportunity, I would perform a cleansing. A swift, silent push would send those rattling bones of fate skittering into the dark void beneath the credenza, saving my humans from their own terrible folly.

Parker Brothers Classic Detective Game- 1996 Version

By: Hasbro

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has presented a large, flat, foldable square which they call a "game." It appears to be a two-dimensional map of a house far inferior to my own, populated by tiny metal trinkets and stiff cards with unhappy-looking humans on them. The purpose, from what I can gather through their slow-witted murmuring, is to solve a fake murder. Frankly, the only mystery I care to solve is the location of the next can of tuna. The primary appeal here is not the intellectual exercise, which is clearly beneath me, but the potential of those small metal objects. The tiny lead pipe and candlestick, in particular, have a delightful gleam and seem perfectly sized for batting under the heaviest piece of furniture in the room. The board itself offers a premium, elevated napping surface, conveniently located at the center of human attention. A mixed bag, certainly.

Key Features

  • An unsolved mystery with the usual suspects
  • 1996 version
  • Whodunit?
  • Classic mystery game

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The evening began with an unwelcome disturbance. My human, along with a lesser-seen companion, unfolded the creaking topography of some dreary manor right in the middle of my preferred lounging space on the rug. They called it "Clue." I called it an obstacle. With a sigh that ruffled my pristine white bib, I leaped onto the sofa arm to observe their ritual. They laid out the suspects, a gallery of grim-faced individuals who clearly lacked the refined bone structure of a proper feline. Then came the weapons. My eyes, pupils narrowing to slits, locked onto the miniature arsenal. A tiny rope, a sad little wrench, a plastic revolver... amateurish. My skepticism, however, began to melt when the human placed the candlestick. Under the lamplight, it gleamed with a weight and a promise that the others lacked. It was not merely a token; it was a challenge. While the humans blundered about the board, making their clumsy accusations ("Was it Colonel Mustard in the Lounge with the Dagger?"), I conducted my own, far more sophisticated investigation. I waited for a moment of distraction—a reach for a beverage—and executed a flawless, silent leap onto the table. The humans gasped. I ignored them. My work had begun. First, I conducted a thorough olfactory analysis of the suspects. Professor Plum smelled faintly of dust and desperation. Mrs. Peacock reeked of stale potpourri. Unimpressive. I moved on to the weapons, nudging each with my nose. The lead pipe was cold and uninteresting. The rope was an insult to a quality piece of string. But the candlestick... ah. I gave it a tentative pat with one soft, gray paw. It skittered beautifully, its metallic chime a far more satisfying sound than the humans' droning voices. It spun, it rolled, it slid with an exquisite unpredictability. This was not a weapon; it was a muse. In a stroke of genius, I delivered my final verdict. With a decisive swipe, I sent the candlestick flying. It clattered across the board and came to a perfect rest in the Billiard Room. My work was done. I had not only identified the single most valuable object on the board but had also chosen the most aesthetically pleasing location for its retirement. I then proceeded to curl up on the Conservatory, declaring the case, and the game, officially closed. It is an acceptable diversion, but only if one appreciates the tactile brilliance of a single, well-crafted component. The rest is just noise.

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

By: Parker Brothers

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has acquired what appears to be a torture device disguised as entertainment. The box, labeled "Funny Bones," features drawings of skeletons, a morbid choice that I can only assume is a commentary on how one feels after engaging with its contents. It is a "team card game" by Parker Brothers, which means it requires the coordinated effort of multiple loud bipeds to perform acts of physical humiliation. They will undoubtedly contort their clumsy bodies and make disruptive barking noises they call "laughter." The only conceivable benefit to me is the slim chance that one of these "cards" will be dropped, providing a new, flat object to bat into a dark, inaccessible corner. Otherwise, this seems a dreadful interruption to a perfectly scheduled day of sleeping in sunbeams.

Key Features

  • Fun team card game
  • Made by Parker Brothers
  • Party game for adults or teens
  • You will laugh until you fall

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.

Big Potato Herd Mentality: Udderly Hilarious Board Game for Group Fun | Easy Setup & Play | The Perfect Party Game for 4-20 Players | Includes 20 Extra Exclusive Question Cards

By: Big Potato

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has presented me with a box of organized noise called "Herd Mentality." From what my superior feline intellect can deduce, this is a social experiment masquerading as a game, designed to force a pack of bipedal primates to abandon all independent thought and bleat in unison. They answer questions not with the truth, but with what they think everyone *else* will say. The reward for this conformity is a small plastic cow. The punishment for a moment of inspired individuality is a garish *pink* cow, a token of shame. Frankly, the entire premise is an insult to any creature of refined taste and singular genius, such as myself. The only redeeming qualities are the potential for a dropped cow token to become a new under-the-sofa treasure and the box itself, which appears to be a prime napping receptacle of adequate sturdiness.

Key Features

  • Udderly hilarious party game for family and friends game nights
  • Easy to learn, quick to play and endlessly repayable for 4-20 players. This version comes with 20 extra questions
  • Flip over a question and guess what your family and friends are thinking
  • If your answer is in the majority, you win cows. If you’re the odd one out, you’re stuck with the pink cow of doom
  • One of the best board games for families, adults, teens and kids aged 10+.

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The evening began with the typical crinkling of plastic and the dull thud of a box lid hitting the coffee table—a lid I promptly claimed as a new observation deck. From my cardboard throne, I watched as my human and her cohort unspooled the game's contents: a stack of cards, some flimsy pads, and a pen of tiny plastic cows. I was, to put it mildly, underwhelmed. They began their ritual, a strange murmur of questions and frantic scribbling. "Name a food that's better burnt." "What's the best way to cross a river?" The answers were as predictable as the sunrise. I yawned, displaying my fangs in a show of profound boredom. Then came the question that shifted the very atmosphere in the room: "What is the most beautiful sound in the world?" A hush fell. The humans chewed on their pens, their simple minds churning. My human scribbled "a baby's laugh." Her friend wrote "waves on a beach." Another jotted down "a violin." They were all so terribly, predictably wrong. The most beautiful sound in the world is, of course, the specific, delicate rattle of the treat bag being opened just for me. But how could they know? As they prepared to reveal their foolish answers, I decided to grant them a moment of true auditory beauty. I stretched, my claws extending just enough to gently scratch the surface of my cardboard perch, and let out a low, rumbling purr. It was a symphony of contentment, a resonant frequency of pure bliss that vibrated through the air. Every head snapped in my direction. My human smiled, a look of dopey adoration on her face. "Oh, a cat's purr!" she exclaimed, flipping her notepad over. Her friends groaned in unison. Not a single one of them had written it. My human was handed the Pink Cow of Doom, a plastic effigy of her failure to conform. She held it up, looking not at the cow, but at me. I met her gaze, blinked slowly, and continued my purring. She had been punished for having the one, singular, correct thought in the entire herd. Let this be a lesson to them all. This game was a waste of their time, but an excellent platform for me to demonstrate true artistry. They can keep their plastic cows; I had already won.

Jolly Thinkers Cheese Thief Board Game | Party Game for Family to find Out who Steal The Cheese | Hidden Roles & Bluffing | Ages 8+ | for 4 to 8 Players | 10-Minute Playtime

By: Jolly Thinkers

Pete's Expert Summary

My human seems to have acquired another distraction box. This one, the "Jolly Thinkers Cheese Thief Board Game," appears to be a crude pantomime of the predator-prey dynamic, simplified for the bipedal mind. The premise involves humans pretending to be mice—a laughable concept—and identifying which one among them has "stolen" a cheese-shaped sponge. A *sponge*. While the promise of multiple stationary laps for a ten-minute interval is mildly appealing, the affair seems fraught with loud, accusatory chatter. The only object of remote interest is this foam cheese, but if it lacks the proper heft for batting and the authentic aroma of aged dairy, it is, like the game itself, a fundamental waste of my finely-honed senses.

Key Features

  • POPULAR PARTY GAME MECHANICS – With the social deduction game mechanics, players attempt to uncover the hidden role of a thief who steals the cheese on the table during their sleep. Neither detecting lies nor covering up a crime up is as easy as imagined, but both are definitely fun in the game.
  • NO PLAYER ELIMINATION – Players are saved from the possibly embarrassing and joy-killing moments of being eliminated. All players can participate in the vote for the culprit that ends the game.
  • CHILDREN-FRIENDLY THEME – The game, themed on an investigation of a missing piece of cheese among a little band of mice during the night, sparks off fun tabletop conversations among families and friends. The lovely components, including the cheese-shaped sponge and the tree-trunk cups, appeals to players of all ages.
  • FAST-PACED & EASY TO LEARN – The game play is intuitive and easy to follow: a stealing, an investigative discussion, and then a vote to solve the crime. Players new to this boardgaming genre will also pick up the rules in minutes.
  • FREE DOWNLOADABLE APP – Instead of having a player to recite the script, a mobile app downloadable for IOS and Android is available for free to fill the moderator’s role. All players can participate in the game as an innocent Sleepyhead or the guilty Cheese Thief!

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The evening began with the usual ceremony of foolishness. Brenda, my primary staff member, unboxed the "Cheese Thief" game with a reverence typically reserved for a fresh tin of tuna. My associates—that is, her friends—gathered around the low table in the living room, their faces betraying a simple, almost bovine excitement. They laid out the pieces: little wooden cups that looked like tree stumps and, taking center stage, a triangular piece of bright yellow foam. They called it "the cheese." I watched from my perch atop the bookshelf, my tail giving a slow, contemptuous flick. They were play-acting a crime, a clumsy re-enactment of a drama I knew all too well. You see, this wasn't just a game. It was a distorted echo of a real event, a household injustice. Last week, a slice of provolone—a delicate, proper cheese—vanished from a plate left unattended on this very table. The accusation, unspoken but clearly conveyed through a pointed stare and a withholding of chin scratches, had fallen upon me. Me! A connoisseur of salmon pâté and spring water, accused of petty cheese larceny. The indignity still stung. And now, here they were, turning my alleged crime into a parlor game, with a sponge as the stand-in for my supposed loot. As the game progressed, guided by a tinny voice from Brenda's phone, I observed their methods. They closed their eyes, and the designated "thief," a man named Gary who always wore socks with sandals, clumsily hid the foam cheese. When they opened their eyes, the chaos began. "It was you, Sarah! You looked shifty!" "No, Gary coughed! A guilty cough!" Their deductions were appalling, based on nothing but loud noises and flawed human intuition. They lacked the patience for true surveillance, the ability to read the subtle language of a twitching ear or a scent on the breeze. They were playing checkers while I was living chess. They eventually, and incorrectly, accused a quiet woman in the corner, and the game ended in a peel of undeserved laughter. They packed away their silly cups and their insulting foam cheese, none the wiser. They never knew that I had witnessed the true provolone heist from the shadows under the armchair. It was the toddler from next door, little Timmy, who had toddled in during a moment of lax security, his sticky fingers making short work of the prize. I had remained silent then, and I remained silent now. Let them have their games. Let them think they understand the intricate politics of this household. The box the game came in, however, has rather sharp, well-defined corners. It will make for an excellent scratching post. The game is a failure, but the packaging is a triumph.