Pete's Expert Summary
My Human and her associates have acquired yet another noise-making apparatus, this one called "Incohearent." From my observations, it appears to be a ritualized form of gibberish. They hold up small paper rectangles and vocalize nonsense until someone else translates it into their simplistic human tongue. The entire affair is accompanied by loud exclamations and the draining of a tiny glass vessel filled with sand. While the cacophony is a direct assault on a sophisticated being's nap schedule, I will concede a few points of interest. The 400 cards represent 400 potential coasters, floor skitterers, and shreddable confetti sources. The sand timer is also a curiosity, a tiny, silent waterfall I could watch for at least a full minute. The game itself is a waste of perfectly good silence, but its component parts show promise for a cat of discerning taste and destructive capabilities.
Key Features
- Internet Famous: Incohearent is the TikTok viral card game where players compete to sound out gibberish and guess the phrase. With over 750 million views on social media, it's bound to bring the fun.
- Grab Your Friends: Looking for adult games for game night? Designed be played with 3-8 players aged 17+, Incohearent is ideal for anyone who loves word games, meme games, board games for adults or just fun card games.
- How To Play: Flip the timer and hold up a card so that other players only see the gibberish side. Everyone else has to guess the phrase before time runs out. Decode the phrase first to win the point.
- Tongue Twisting Fun: From party games to date night ideas, Incohearent brings laughter to anyone in your life. Always a hit at gatherings, it's also a great gift for teen girls or funny gift.
- What's Inside: Contains 400 cards, a 1 minute sand timer, and gameplay instructions. Cards belong to one of three categories (Party, Spicy, and Pop Culture) and feature all new, updated content.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The first sign of trouble was the arrival of the Human's pack, their loud greetings echoing off the walls of my domain. The second was the box. It was new, which was promising, but what emerged was not a crinkle ball or a feather wand. It was a stack of cards and a small, perplexing glass object. Then, the noises began. It wasn't the usual drone of human chatter; it was a series of guttural, nonsensical sounds. "Thigh Sing Gun," one of them barked. "He's an icon?" another shrieked back. I flattened my ears, my tail giving a slow, irritated thump against the rug. Were they ill? Was this some sort of collective linguistic breakdown? I crept closer, a shadow in my gray tuxedo, to observe this bizarre spectacle. My initial hypothesis was that they were attempting to summon something. A demon, perhaps, or a larger, more satisfying meal than the dry kibble they deign to grant me. They would hold a card, make the foul sound, and the others would guess. When one finally deciphered the auditory puzzle, they would cackle and claim a "point," whatever that is. I watched, unimpressed, from under the coffee table. The tiny glass vial of sand they kept flipping was the only dignified element in the room. It measured time with a quiet grace the humans sorely lacked, each grain a silent testament to the moments of my life being wasted by their clamor. Then, an opportunity. A card was dropped. It slid halfway under the sofa, into my territory. The phrase on it was "Up heave hoe twin." The Human's friend, the one with the jangly bracelets, was trying to say it. "Uh... pea... coat... win?" she stammered. This was my moment to demonstrate superior intellect. While they were fumbling with their crude phonetics, I emerged, snagged the card with a single claw, and dragged it fully into the shadows of my under-sofa lair. I had successfully "up-heaved" it. The "ho twin" part was irrelevant. I had won. They eventually retrieved the card, of course, after much cooing and pleading, which I ignored. My verdict was clear. The "game" is a pointless exercise in human absurdity. It creates noise, disrupts peace, and relies on a system of logic so flawed it’s an insult to a thinking creature. However, the cards themselves are lightweight and perfect for batting. The sand timer is a mesmerizing object of quiet contemplation. Therefore, I will tolerate this Incohearent nonsense on one condition: a tax of at least three cards and supervised access to the timer per session. It's a steep price, but I am, after all, a benevolent ruler.
