Pete's Expert Summary
My human has procured a large, flat, foldable square from a company called Hasbro, a known purveyor of plastic distractions. They call it "Candy Land." Apparently, the goal is to move small, vaguely man-shaped plastic tokens along a winding, garishly colored path by drawing cards. The entire enterprise seems designed for beings with rudimentary cognitive function, given its proud declaration of "no reading required." The complete lack of feathers, strings, or electronic red dots is a glaring oversight. However, the little gingerbread figures look eminently battable, and the board itself occupies a prime napping location. Its only potential value lies in its capacity to be disrupted, which, I suppose, is a form of play.
Key Features
- CLASSIC BEGINNER GAME: Do you remember playing Candy Land when you were a kid. Introduce new generations to this sweet kids' board game
- RACE TO THE CASTLE: Players encounter all kinds of "delicious" surprises as they move their cute gingerbread man pawn around the path in a race to the castle
- NO READING REQUIRED TO PLAY: For kids ages 3 and up, Candy Land can be a great game for kids who haven't learned how to read yet
- GREAT GAME FOR LITTLE ONES: The Candy Land board game features colored cards, sweet destinations, and fun illustrations that kids love
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The ceremonial unfolding of the board was met with my deepest indifference. I watched from my perch on the armchair as the humans—one large, one small—set up their two-dimensional "Kingdom of Sweet Adventures." A pathetic kingdom, I thought, with no shadowy corners for ambushing or high shelves for surveying. They placed four little plastic men on the starting square, their painted smiles mocking the very concept of a thrilling chase. The small human drew a card, shrieked with a delight entirely disproportionate to the event, and moved a red token to a red square. Riveting. I must have dozed off, for when I opened my eyes again, the blue man was mired in a patch of brown they called the "Molasses Swamp." A fitting name for the pace of this game. The yellow man was nearing a place called "Gumdrop Mountains." It was all so predictable, so governed by the arbitrary turn of a card. This world lacked a crucial element: a capricious, all-powerful force of nature. It needed a god. It needed me. With a languid stretch, I hopped down from the chair, my paws silent on the rug. I approached the board not as a pet, but as a meteorological event. My great, gray shadow fell across the Peppermint Forest first, an unexpected eclipse. The humans paused, looking at me. "Oh, look, Pete wants to play!" the large one cooed. They misunderstood my purpose entirely. I was not here to "play." I was here to introduce a little divine intervention. I nudged the yellow gingerbread man with my nose. He didn't just move to the next square; he skittered across the glossy surface and plunged into the Sea of Swirls and Twirls. A tragic, yet necessary, tsunami. The small human let out a small gasp. The large one just laughed and rescued the token. But they couldn't stop destiny. I laid myself down, a soft, furry mountain range, directly across the entire middle of the path, my white tuxedo-bib resting squarely upon King Kandy's Castle. The path was blocked. The race was over. Their simple rules were no match for the fundamental law of the universe: all flat surfaces in a sunbeam belong to the cat. They could have their plastic men and their colored cards. I had the castle, the kingdom, and the perfect spot for a nap. The game was, in its own way, a success. Not for them, of course. For me.
