Hollow God of Plastic Falls to One Decisive Shove

The human called the ritual "assembly," but I recognized it for what it was: a desperate act of creation. He sat on the floor, surrounded by five primary-colored idols, muttering incantations from a paper scroll. There was the lumbering black one, the brutish yellow one, a garish blue, a superfluous pink, and a sharp-headed red one. I watched from my perch on the armchair, a silent, gray-furred god judging a mortal’s clumsy attempt at sculpture. He clicked and pressed them together, not with the elegant finality of a predator’s jaws, but with the fumbling uncertainty of a creature who still has to *open* cans of tuna instead of simply willing them into existence. When the effigy was complete, he presented it to me. "Look, Pete! The Megazord!" It stood there, a monument to poor taste. Its posture was rigid, its expression vacant. It was a hollow god for a hollow age. I descended from my throne, my paws silent on the rug, and began my formal architectural critique. I circled the construct, my tail giving a slow, judgmental twitch. The lines were all wrong, a chaotic jumble of competing forms with no central, unifying aesthetic. It lacked the sleek minimalism of the television stand or the brutalist honesty of the scratching post. It was, in a word, suburban. With a soft *pat*, my paw made contact with its leg. The plastic felt cheap, yielding. This was no mighty Zord; this was a bauble. I gave it a more insistent shove. The connection points, so proudly "clicked" into place by my human, groaned under the pressure. I saw the weakness, the inherent flaw in its design. This was not a structure built to last or to inspire awe. It was built to be sold. With a final, decisive push aimed at its center of gravity, the entire thing collapsed. The "Megazord" tumbled into its five constituent parts, scattering across the floor with a series of pathetic clatters. My human sighed. I, however, felt a sense of rightness restore to the room. The grand, ugly idol was vanquished, reduced to manageable, bat-able pieces. I selected the yellow one—the Saber-Toothed Tiger, I believe he called it—and with a flick of my paw, sent it skittering under the sofa. It was a far more fitting fate. It was not a warrior. It was clutter. And I am the master of all clutter.