Pete's Expert Summary
So, the humans have acquired another one of their flat, colorful squares for obsessive staring. This one, a "Monopoly Ultimate Banking Edition," seems to have traded the delightfully crinkly paper money—perfect for shredding—for a beeping plastic brick. A catastrophic design choice, in my opinion. The primary appeal here is twofold: the long duration of the "game" will keep my staff occupied and out of my fur for hours, and the small plastic tokens look eminently battable. I see a tiny top hat and a ship that are destined for a long, dark journey under the credenza. The electronic noises might be a minor distraction, but overall, this is a device for human self-containment, freeing up the best sunbeams for their rightful owner.
Key Features
- Introducing Event cards for an exciting game
- Tap technology makes the game fast and fun
- Instant transactions and cashless gameplay
- Property values rise and fall
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The box was breached on a Friday night, a time typically reserved for my extended lap-nap. But The Attendant and her mate were giddy, pulling out a board, little plastic houses, and a peculiar gray device that hummed with a low, electronic pulse. They called it the "Banker." I watched from my perch on the back of the sofa, my tail twitching in annoyance. They began tapping small plastic cards onto the Banker, which responded with a series of chirps and flashing lights. They would cheer or groan based on the numbers that appeared. It was clear to me what this was: a poorly designed automated valet. A machine meant to dispense services, yet I had not been served once. When a momentary lull in the action occurred—a dispute over "property values," a concept I find utterly baffling unless it involves a particularly plush cushion—I saw my chance. I leapt silently onto the table, my paws making no sound on the glossy board. The humans watched, amused. "Look, Pete wants to play!" The Attendant cooed. Fools. I wasn't here to play their pointless game of squares and plastic; I was here to conduct a quality assurance test. I sniffed the Banker. It smelled of ozone and unmet potential. Ignoring their silly cards, I placed a single, perfect gray paw directly onto the "Tap" sensor. The machine beeped. A low, resonant tone. The number on the screen, which had read M2.50, suddenly changed. It began to cycle rapidly through various figures, lights flashing erratically. The humans gasped. "What did he do?" the mate asked, bewildered. The Banker let out a final, high-pitched *trill* and the screen displayed a single, triumphant image: a stylized fish skeleton. Then it went dark. I had done it. I had hacked their primitive valet, bypassed its convoluted user interface, and submitted the only request that mattered: a demand for tuna. I retracted my paw, sat back on my haunches, and stared expectantly at the silent machine, then at the two stunned humans. I had issued my command. Their move. The little silver ship token sat near the edge of the board, and I gave it a deliberate nudge with my nose, sending it skittering into the void. A reminder of my power. The Banker remained inert, failing to produce the requested fish. While I appreciate a device that can be so easily bent to my will, its failure to deliver on the fundamental promise of service renders it a failure. It is a novel, if ultimately useless, noisemaker. Now, if you'll excuse me, there is a real, non-electronic attendant I must go pester for my dinner.