Pete's Expert Summary
My human has presented me with a miniature plastic effigy of one of their loud, smelly "gas stations." Apparently, it's from a tribe called "Matchbox." It comes with a small, wheeled morsel they call a "truck," which can be pushed around to make other plastic bits move. While the tiny, dangling hoses might provide a moment's chewing satisfaction, and the truck itself could be a worthy opponent in a game of "bat it under the furniture," the overall static nature of this contraption seems dreadfully boring. It's designed to be connected to other, similar plastic landscapes, which only threatens to consume more of my valuable napping territory. I suspect this will hold my attention for precisely as long as it takes me to lose the truck piece.
Key Features
- The Matchbox Action Drivers Matchbox Fuel Station Playset has all the features of a real-life gas station that kids will recognize and enjoy emulating in push-around play.
- This playset has lots of awesome push-around play features -- kids push their cars in front of the gas tanks to activate the pump to move up and down. They can also adjust the gas price display and manually activate the air pump.
- The Matchbox Action Drivers playset features incredibly realistic details that allow kids to create epic stories and invent their own adventures on a smaller scale.
- The base of the playset has connection points on 4 sides so kids can connect this to other Matchbox sets or to Hot Wheels City sets to expand a world of their own design.
- Kids 3 years old and up will love this awesome playset that comes with a 1:64 scale car.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
It appeared one morning, a silent, angular monolith on the vast beige desert of the living room rug. My human called it a "Fuel Station," but I knew better. This was an altar. I watched from the arm of the sofa, a gray fur-clad god observing a strange new cult. The human, the high priest of this ridiculous religion, performed the initial rites, pushing a tiny blue truck—the sacrifice, I presumed—back and forth. They chanted in the common tongue, "Vroom, vroom," and fiddled with a dial that changed numbers, likely some form of sacred numerology. For hours, I studied the bizarre temple. It had a small, red pillar which the priest would press, an "air pump" they called it, clearly a device for dispensing holy vapors. Two flexible black serpents hung from the main structure, instruments for anointing the sacrificial truck. The central ritual, however, involved rolling the truck past a specific point on the altar's floor, which caused a larger piece to jump up and down. A signal to their plastic deity, no doubt. The entire display was baffling, a testament to the sheer strangeness of the bipedal mind. Once the high priest had departed, leaving the shrine unattended, I descended from my perch to conduct my own investigation. The air around it was disappointingly mundane, smelling only of cheap manufacturing. I sniffed the blue truck. It offered no scent of fear or divinity. Tentatively, I extended a single, perfect white paw and tapped it. The sacrifice rolled away, dislodging one of the black serpents from its hook. I waited. No wrathful god descended, no lightning struck. I batted the serpent. It wiggled feebly. I gave the altar one last, dismissive look. This was no powerful new religion to challenge my own divine authority in this house. It was just a hollow idol. I pushed the sacrificial truck with my nose, sending it skittering into the dark abyss beneath the entertainment center, an offering to the God of Lost Things. Then, with a flick of my tail, I turned my back on the pathetic shrine and strode toward my food bowl, the true holy grail of this domain. This new cult was, in a word, unworthy.
