Pete's Expert Summary
My human has brought home another box of what they call "fun." This one, from a brand with a name I can't be bothered to pronounce, seems to be a game designed to remind humans of their own intellectual failings. It is a small box containing over a hundred paper rectangles, each covered in queries about things they supposedly "should know." While the ensuing spectacle of their groans and face-palms might provide some mild amusement, the true value is clearly the box itself—a passable, if not luxurious, platform for surveying my domain. The cards, small and flimsy, might offer a moment's diversion if batted under the sofa, but the core activity seems to be a pointless exercise in loud frustration, a true waste of perfectly good napping and lap-warming time.
Key Features
- Is starboard on the left or right side of a boat? How do you say “Japan” in Japanese? Is a penguin a bird? How long did Sleeping Beauty actually sleep?
- In contrast to traditional trivia formats, you don’t receive points for answering questions correctly. Instead, points are subtracted for every incorrect answer!
- Contains 110 cards with more than 400 questions about things that you should know
- An addictively entertaining trivia game where it will only be a matter of time before you hear yourself say… Ahhh!... I should have known that!
- Players 2+ / Age 14+ / Box size 5.7 x 5.7 x 1.8 inches
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The operation was one of delicate timing and profound purpose. My human, Bartholomew, and his cohort had gathered around the low table, their large, clumsy hands fumbling with the contents of the box. They called it a "game." I called it The Archive of Ignorance. From my observation post atop the bookshelf, I watched them draw card after card, their brows furrowed in concentration. The sounds they made were fascinating: a sharp intake of breath, a low mutter, and then, inevitably, a collective, groaning cry of "Ahhh! I should have known that!" It was a ritual of self-flagellation, and it was my opportunity. My target was not the box, a structure too small for a cat of my stature to properly inhabit. No, my prize was one of the cards themselves—a single sliver of captured human knowledge that I intended to liberate. I observed their patterns. After a question about which direction starboard is, the entire group slumped in defeat. Their attention lapsed. Their guard was down. This was the moment. I descended from the bookshelf with the silence of falling dust, my gray fur a blur against the evening shadows, my white paws making no sound on the hardwood floor. I crept under the armchair, my belly low, peering through the forest of chair legs. A single card lay near the edge of the table, abandoned in a wave of shared disappointment. The question that had stumped them was irrelevant. All that mattered was its proximity. With the focus of a predator, I timed my strike to coincide with the next wave of communal despair. As they agonized over how to say "Japan" in Japanese, I launched my attack. A single, swift extension of my paw, a flash of white, and a single claw hooked the edge of the card, pulling it silently over the precipice. It fluttered to the rug like a wounded moth. I snatched my prize in my teeth and retreated to my lair beneath the credenza. The card tasted faintly of ink and the oils from Bartholomew’s hands. I laid it out before me. "Is a penguin a bird?" it asked. A ridiculous question. I have watched them on the glowing rectangle. They are waddling, tuxedo-clad morsels of the sea. Of course they are birds. My humans’ inability to grasp such a fundamental truth of the natural world was baffling. I gave the corner of the card a satisfying chew, reducing their query to pulp. The game was a failure, but as a source of high-quality, shreddable quarry? It was a resounding success.
