Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with this... object. It's a large, round piece of red plastic with a collection of clickable buttons arranged like the petals of a most unappealing flower. They call it "TAPPLE," a name that sounds like an unfortunate hiccup. The manufacturer, USAOPOLY, seems to specialize in these noisy, brightly colored distractions. From what I can gather, the humans must select a category from a tiny, chewable-looking card, then shout words at each other while frantically striking the buttons before a timer screeches at them. This appears to be a formalized system for generating noise and chaos, two things that gravely interfere with the sophisticated art of napping. While the small cards might offer a moment's diversion before being lost under the credenza, the primary device is far too large and unwieldy for any respectable form of play. It seems less a toy and more a ritualized headache-inducer.
Key Features
- The Original and Authentic Version of the Sensational Party Game
- Get ready for the award-winning fast-paced word game that gives family game night a rush of excitement as players compete to beat the timer!
- HOW TO PLAY - Choose a card with a category, press the timer, and shout out words related to the category that start with a certain letter. Once the related word is announced, press the corresponding letter tab.
- Take it on the go and great to play anywhere - the portable Tapple wheel stores all of the category cards for easy carry and storage.
- Includes 1 Tapple wheel with built-in timer, 36 cards (144 categories), rules
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ceremony began, as it so often does, at the Great Polished Altar they call a "dining table." The Human, my primary staff member, unboxed the Sacrificial Disc. It was a garish red, a color I find terribly common, and it hummed with a low, latent energy. They placed it in the center, and the other gathered humans leaned in, their faces illuminated by the harsh overhead light, their expressions a mixture of glee and primal fear. One of them drew a small, white tile from the disc's core and read its arcane inscription aloud: "Things You Find in a Refrigerator." A sacred pact, it seemed. Then, the piercing shriek. A ten-second countdown began, an electronic pulse that vibrated through the wood of the table and into my whiskers. The First Human yelled "EGGS!" and struck the 'E' button on the disc, which replied with a sharp, satisfying *thwack*. The Second Human, eyes wide, shouted "MUSTARD!" and slammed the 'M'. The disc was passed, a hot potato of intellectual panic. They were casting spells, you see, naming the spirits that dwelled within the Great Cold Box in the kitchen. Each *thwack* of a letter was a ward, a seal to bind the named entity. My initial assessment was one of profound secondhand embarrassment. But as the ritual intensified, I began to see the grim necessity of it. This wasn't a game; it was an exorcism. "KETCHUP!" "LEFTOVERS!" "PICKLES!" With each successful incantation, a spirit was contained. But then, the youngest human froze. His mind was a blank slate, the well of refrigerated spirits run dry. The electronic shriek intensified, culminating in a final, mournful buzz of failure. He had been bested. He slumped in his chair, ritually defeated, while the others continued their frantic litany. This "TAPPLE" was a tool for culling the weak from the pack, ensuring only the quickest minds were permitted to open the Cold Box and retrieve my cream. When the noise finally subsided, one human remained, the triumphant shaman who had successfully named and bound the most spirits. The Sacrificial Disc was returned to its box, its power dormant once more. I hopped onto the table, sniffing the air, which was thick with the scent of adrenaline and relief. I gave a slow, deliberate blink to the victor. Their ritual was absurd, their methods baffling, but the outcome was clear. The hierarchy was maintained, and the guardians of my sustenance had proven their worth. The device itself is an affront to good taste, but I approve of its results.