Pete's Expert Summary
My human has procured another one of her "group entertainment" devices. It's a collection of stiff paper rectangles covered in incomprehensible squiggles, all housed within a rather sturdy, if uninspired, box. The premise, as I understand it from the loud noises that follow its appearance, involves The Staff and their guests shouting answers to questions they apparently "oughta know," then groaning in a most satisfyingly dramatic fashion when they fail. The most appealing aspect, from my superior vantage point, is not the flimsy cards, which are barely worth batting, but the box itself. It appears to be of a respectable sitting dimension. The true value lies in the entertainment of watching my provider's fragile ego crumble with each incorrect answer; the game itself is merely a noisy and elaborate vessel for this delightful spectacle.
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 evening began with a familiar, unwelcome sound: the crinkle of plastic wrap being torn from a new box. My human, whom I shall refer to as The Provider, placed the blue cube on the coffee table with a triumphant air. Her friends, The Guests, leaned in. I observed from my post on the back of the sofa, my tail giving a slow, metronomic twitch of disapproval. Another noisy human ritual was about to commence, interrupting the perfect silence of the living room. They called it "I should have known that!"—a boastfully foolish name for what was clearly an exercise in public humiliation. As they played, a strange pattern emerged. There was no cheering for correct answers, only a collective, satisfying groan when someone failed. They weren't earning points; they were *losing* them, accumulating little gray tokens of shame. I crept closer, drawn in by this celebration of failure. It resonated with my own worldview; success is expected, but failure is a fascinating deviation. The Provider, attempting to answer whether a penguin is a bird, wavered. "Well, it doesn't fly," she mused, incorrectly. A groan rippled through the group. My ears perked. A bird? Of course, it's a bird. I've watched countless documentaries from the comfort of my favorite armchair. It's a plump, waddling, fish-inhaling bird. The ignorance was astounding. I leaped silently onto the table. The box lid, now empty of its cards, sat abandoned. It was a perfect square, a throne of judgment. I settled into it, my pristine white tuxedo a stark contrast to the dark wood. From my new perch, I surveyed the game. A Guest was asked to name the two elemental ingredients of water. He fumbled, guessed "air," and was handed a token of failure. I stared directly at him, gave a slow, deliberate blink, and then yawned, a clear commentary on his pathetic grasp of the physical world. I was no longer just an observer; I was the arbiter, the silent judge whose disappointment was palpable. The game continued under my regal supervision. With each foolish answer, I would subtly shift in my cardboard throne, perhaps letting out a soft, critical "mrrrow." When The Provider confidently declared that Sleeping Beauty slept for only fifty years, I'd had enough. Her sheer inability to retain basic fairytale lore was an insult to my intelligence. With a flick of my tail, I nudged a single shame token off the edge of the table. It clattered to the floor, a definitive punctuation to her error. The humans laughed, calling me a "silly boy." They didn't understand. It wasn't silly; it was a verdict. The game was crude, the questions insultingly simple, but the box made a magnificent judgment seat. It is, I have decided, a worthy accessory for overseeing the intellectual decay of my staff.
