Pete's Expert Summary
My human has acquired a 12-inch plastic man in a garish blue and red suit. They call him "Superman." Apparently, his purpose is for the small, loud human to orchestrate "heroic adventures," a concept I find utterly baffling unless it involves strategically acquiring a second breakfast. From my perspective, its size makes it a notable new piece of furniture to be knocked over. The "11 points of articulation" are mildly intriguing; a posable adversary is more stimulating than a static one. The cape, in particular, shows promise for batting. Still, it is fundamentally an inert piece of plastic that does not dispense treats or warm a lap, so its potential to be anything more than a momentary distraction before a nap is highly questionable.
Key Features
- HEROIC ADVENTURES AWAIT: Bring epic battles and daring rescues to life with this 12-inch action figure, crafted with incredible detail and designed for thrilling Super Heroes adventures in every play session
- ACTION-PACKED ARTICULATION: With 11 points of articulation, kids can pose their hero in dynamic battle stances or recreate iconic scenes, inspiring creativity, and endless storytelling possibilities
- IMAGINATION AND STORYTELLING: Whether re-creating Superman’s heroic rescues or inventing bold new missions, this toy sparks creativity and encourages kids to dream big while building their own heroic tales
- PERFECT GIFT FOR LITTLE HEROES: Ideal for birthdays, holidays, or special occasions, this Superman action figure brings hours of fun to kids who love action, teamwork, and thrilling adventures
- CREATE YOUR SUPER HEROES TEAM: Pair Superman with other iconic figures like Green Lantern, Hawkgirl, and Mr. Terrific (each sold separately) to build a legendary team and expand the adventure
- Includes: 1 Figure
- Covered by the Spin Master Care Commitment. See below for full details
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The monolith arrived in a transparent prison, its painted-on eyes staring into nothingness. The small human released it with a shriek of glee, placing it on the highest point of his desk, a shrine to primary-colored justice. He stood there, this "Superman," fists on his hips, an arrogant posture I’ve seen my own human adopt after successfully opening a particularly stubborn jar of pickles. He was an interloper, a silent, muscular sentinel invading my sovereign airspace. I watched from the arm of the sofa, my tail twitching a slow, deliberate rhythm of contempt. He was plastic. He was hollow. And he was in my way. For a full day, I conducted surveillance. The small human would manipulate his limbs, forcing him into what were supposedly "dynamic battle stances." A raised arm here, a bent knee there. The joints clicked softly, a sound that grated on my nerves. The human would make him "fly," swooping him past my face with an accompanying "whoosh" that was an insult to the dignified silence of the afternoon. I saw it all. This was not a being of power, but a puppet, a mere tool for a child's crude fantasies. I noted his top-heavy construction, the way his cape offered a tantalizing, unsecured anchor point. His strength was an illusion. That night, under the sterile glow of the small human’s rocket-ship nightlight, I made my move. I did not pounce. Pouncing is for mice and panicked-looking dust bunnies. This required finesse. I leaped onto the desk with the grace of a falling shadow, landing without a sound. I circled the figure, sniffing. He smelled of factory chemicals and the faint, sticky residue of the small human’s hands. I stood on my hind legs, placing my front paws gently on his shoulders, and looked directly into his vacant, blue eyes. I was giving him a chance to acknowledge a superior being. He, of course, did nothing. This inaction was the final confirmation of his inadequacy. I lowered myself and, with the practiced ease of a surgeon, hooked a single, perfect claw into the woven fabric of his red cape. I pulled, not with force, but with a steady, calculated pressure. He wobbled. His center of gravity, so carefully balanced by the child, betrayed him. He tipped backward, his articulated limbs flailing uselessly, and pitched over the edge of the desk. The fall was unimpressive, ending with a dull, hollow *thump* on the shag carpet. I peered over the edge. He lay there, twisted and undignified, one arm bent at an impossible angle behind his back. The hero had been vanquished not by a supervillain, but by the simple, immutable law of physics, a law I had just demonstrated with elegant precision. He was unworthy of his pedestal. I hopped down, gave the fallen idol a perfunctory sniff, and sauntered away to find a more suitable, and far more comfortable, throne upon my human’s cashmere sweater. The world was safe once more.
