Pete's Expert Summary
It appears my human has acquired yet another box of noisy paper. From my vantage point on the heated blanket, I can see it's a card game called "Taco Cat Goat Cheese Pizza." The name is a transparent attempt to pander to me with the word "Cat," while surrounding it with a list of things I'm either indifferent to or actively forbidden from eating. The humans will likely sit in a circle, shout these words, and slap these cards, creating a disruptive cacophony that serves no purpose other than to interrupt my nap schedule. The only potential upside is a stray card fluttering to the floor, which might provide a brief, one-pounce diversion before I deem it unworthy and return to more important matters, like sleeping.
Key Features
- PLAY IT ANY TIME ANY PLACE- Convenient take anywhere size game.
- SIMPLE AND HILARIOUS- Fast paced laugh out loud fun for any get together.
- WILDLY POPULAR- Perfect for all-ages.
- GET ROLLING IN SECONDS- Takes only a minute to learn and gameplay lasts for about 10 to 15 minutes.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The disturbance began as a low, rhythmic chant, pulling me from a rather exquisite dream involving a river of pure cream. "Taco. Cat. Goat. Cheese. Pizza." The words, spoken in sequence by my human and her chosen pack, filled the living room with a cult-like resonance. I watched from the arm of the sofa, my tail giving a single, irritated flick. They were hunched over the low table, their focus locked on a stack of flimsy paper squares. It was clearly the beginning of some bizarre human ritual, one I had not yet had the displeasure of witnessing. The pace quickened. Cards were flipped. The chanting continued, a frantic mantra, until a word matched a picture and—*SMACK*! A flurry of hands slammed down on the pile. The violence was startling. Why were they attacking the paper? What had it done to them? Then, the ritual devolved further. One of the larger males suddenly began beating his chest like a silverback gorilla. Another female held her hands to her forehead as if sprouting a horn. They were possessed, obviously. This wasn't a "game," as they called it; it was a ritualistic descent into madness, and I was frankly concerned about the long-term stability of my food source. Amidst a particularly chaotic slap, one of the paper squares escaped the fray. It fluttered, caught in the air vent's gentle current, and drifted like a wounded moth before landing silently on the rug, a mere tail's length from my position. I condescended to peer at it. The illustration was a crude, almost offensive, caricature of a feline. Below it, the word "Cat." So. It was an effigy. They were using my sacred title in their deranged incantation. Was this a form of worship? A poorly executed summons? I was, against my better judgment, intrigued. I extended a single, perfect paw, its white fur pristine against the dark rug, and pinned the offering to the floor. It was mine now. The humans, lost in their noisy trance, were none the wiser. They could keep their slapping and their strange animal impressions. They believed they were merely passing the time. I knew the truth. They had called upon their gray-furred deity, and I had answered by accepting their tribute. This box of paper artifacts, while causing a deplorable amount of noise, had proven its worth. It provided me with the respect I am due. It is… adequate.
