A photo of Pete the cat

Pete's Toy Box: Toss 'Em

TEXAS TOSS'EM™ - Poker Darts Game - Includes Dart Case, Game Mat, Pack of Cards, Rules, Perfect for Game Room and Events, Party Game for Adults & Teens, Texas Holdem Combined with Darts, Board Game

By: TEXAS TOSS'EM

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has once again squandered our shared resources on a peculiar human ritual device. From what I can gather through observation and the faint, pleasing scent of cedar wood, this "TEXAS TOSS'EM" is a baffling hybrid of two pointless activities: throwing sharp metal spikes at a wall and staring at little paper squares. While the overall concept is a tragic waste of time that could be better spent admiring me, I must concede some of the components show potential. The large cork surface appears to be a scratching canvas of the highest order, and the little feathered projectiles, while dangerously pointy on one end, have a certain bird-like allure that might warrant a closer, late-night investigation. The rest is just noise and a distraction from my nap schedule.

Key Features

  • Classic Full Size Edition of The TEXAS TOSS'EM Game framed with cedar wood and features a high quality print on premium cork
  • 12 Piece Dart Set with Case, Aluminium Shaft, 24g, Sharpener, Matching Colored Flights
  • Gaming Mat and Dart Holder
  • TEXAS TOSS'EM Game Rules and 2 Bonus Games
  • Playing Cards
  • Made in Canada

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The cacophony began shortly after the large, flat box was ceremoniously opened. My human, The Provider, and their equally loud companion began affixing a strange, wood-framed circle to the wall. The scent of cedar was a pleasant prelude, but it was soon overwhelmed by whoops and groans as they began flinging what looked like metallic insects at the board. My interest was piqued not by their bizarre game, but by the "insects" themselves. They had sleek metal bodies and, most importantly, vibrant, feathery tails. I watched from the arm of the sofa, my own tail twitching in sync with my burgeoning plan. They called them "darts," but I knew what they were: captured prey, caged in a little plastic holder, begging to be liberated. Later, under the silver glow of a partial moon filtering through the window, I executed my mission. The house was silent, the humans deep in their slumber, no doubt dreaming of their pointless victory or defeat. I leaped onto the games table, my paws making no sound on the new rubbery mat they'd laid out. I first inspected the board. I stretched, extending my claws, and gave the cork a tentative drag. It was magnificent. The resistance was perfect, the sound a deeply satisfying *shfffft*. A lesser cat would have been distracted, but I had a higher purpose. I turned my attention to the dart holder, where the twelve shiny captives rested. My target was a green-tailed specimen. It looked plump, arrogant. I crept closer, my body low. I raised a paw, carefully hooking a claw around the plastic flight. It was trickier than batting at a spider; the weight was all wrong, concentrated in the pointy, uninteresting end. With a delicate flick of my wrist, I dislodged it. It fell with a soft *thud* onto the mat. I pounced immediately, trapping it beneath my paws. The plastic tail rustled beautifully. I batted it, sending it skittering across the mat until it disappeared under the sofa. One free. I managed to liberate two more—a blue and a red—before my refined sensibilities were overcome by boredom. It was, I concluded, a flawed design. The prey was too heavy, too inert, and the sharp end was a genuine hazard to a sophisticated palate. I left the scattered evidence of my hunt for The Provider to find in the morning. Let them understand that any "toy" brought into my kingdom is subject to my review. My verdict: a foolish human game, but the cork board is a sublime scratching post, and the "darts" provide a brief, if ultimately unsatisfying, thrill of the hunt. It is, for now, deemed worthy of existing in my space. Marginally.

Toss'em Water Bomb Ballons & Filler Cap

By: Toss'em

Pete's Expert Summary

My human, in a spectacular lapse of judgment, has presented me with a package of "Toss'em Water Bomb Ballons." From what I can gather, these are flimsy rubber sacs designed to be filled with that dreadful, wet substance—water—and then hurled, presumably at other loud, clumsy humans. The entire concept promises shrieking, dampness, and general mayhem, all of which are antithetical to a life of sophisticated leisure. While an *unfilled* balloon might serve as a passable, if somewhat pathetic, puck for a brief floor-hockey session, the toy's primary function is a hydro-based assault on dignity. It is, in short, a complete and utter waste of everyone's time, especially mine.

Key Features

  • Hours of Fun
  • Free Filler Neck

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The prophecy arrived not in a clap of thunder, but in a crinkly plastic bag placed upon the kitchen table. I, a Seer of some renown, observed from my post on the plush dining chair. The human called them "water balloons," but I saw them for what they were: unhatched Fates, each color a different thread of destiny. The small plastic nozzle they called a "filler" was clearly a key, a tool for unlocking the future contained within. I knew a ritual was about to commence, and I was its sole, silent interpreter. My human, the High Priestess of this strange ceremony, selected a yellow balloon—the color of caution and impending sunbeams on the floor. She attached it to the Key and turned the silver spigot, a clumsy incantation of twisting metal. The Fate began to swell, its thin skin growing taut with captured liquid potential. I watched, my tail giving a slow, metronomic twitch. This was a portent of minor domestic chaos, a sign that the vacuum cleaner might be brought forth from its dark chamber later in the day. I made a mental note to secure a nap spot in the upstairs linen closet. Then, she took the swollen yellow orb outside. I followed at a regal distance, observing through the pristine glass of the sliding door. She hurled it against the patio stones, and it burst with a wet *splat*. The prophecy was fulfilled: a momentary, glistening mess that would soon evaporate. She repeated the ritual with a blue one (sadness, the coming of a bath?), and then a red one (passion, or perhaps the delivery of a tuna-centric grocery order?). It was a frantic, wasteful scrying session. She was not reading the signs; she was merely destroying them. I turned away from the window, disgusted by her lack of vision. She saw "Hours of Fun," a temporary distraction from the crushing meaninglessness of a life without fur. I saw the very fabric of the day being torn asunder and cast about with gleeful ignorance. I retired to my velvet bed, leaving the Priestess to her pointless, soggy ritual. Some are born with the Sight, and some, it seems, are born only to get the pavement wet.

Toss Em! Water Balloon Sling Shot

By: Unknown

Pete's Expert Summary

So, the Human has presented me with a contraption that appears to be a crude, two-person weapon system. Its purpose, as far as I can deduce, is to launch flimsy, water-filled orbs at high velocity across the yard. It boasts an assortment of brightly colored balloons, which, I admit, might be mildly diverting to bat around *before* their nefarious purpose is fulfilled. However, its primary function involves water, loud human shrieking, and the potential for a sudden, undignified drenching. This is not a toy; it is an instrument of chaos, a direct assault on the sanctity of a dry, peaceful afternoon and a clear sign the humans have lost their minds.

Key Features

  • Water balloon sling shot comes with assorted colored balloons

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The battle had been waged without me. I had observed the initial preparations from the safety of the sunbeam on the living room rug, my tail twitching with preemptive disapproval. The small humans, shrieking with a fervor usually reserved for the arrival of the food delivery person, stretched a long, rubbery device between them. The larger human loaded a small, glistening orb of pure malevolence into its pouch. The whole affair was loud, damp, and utterly barbaric. I, of course, had retired for a nap to preserve my sanity. Hours later, a contemplative silence had fallen over my domain. I ventured out onto the patio to survey the aftermath. The scene was one of carnage. The concrete was slick with puddles, and the grass was littered with the brightly colored, broken skins of the fallen projectiles. A flash of defeated crimson here, a smear of mournful blue there. I padded carefully through the damp graveyard, my nose wrinkling at the faint scent of chlorine and wet rubber. This was no game; this was a massacre. Then, I saw it. Tucked beneath the leg of a patio chair, a survivor. A single, un-popped balloon, a vibrant, almost defiant yellow. It was perfectly round, taut with its liquid prisoner, glistening in the late afternoon sun. My predatory instincts, long dormant during my nap, stirred. Here was a worthy adversary, silent and still. I crouched, my body low to the ground, my gray fur blending with the evening shadows. My tail gave a single, decisive flick. This one would not escape. With the grace of a seasoned hunter, I crept forward and extended a single, curious paw. I tapped the yellow orb. It wobbled with a delightful jiggle, a silent challenge. Intriguing. Perhaps there was something to this after all. I batted it more firmly, and it rolled out from under the chair, a perfect, silent sphere of prey. I gathered myself for the final pounce, the ceremonial "kill" bite that would assert my dominance. But as my claw made the slightest contact, the orb didn't just pop; it detonated. A cold, shocking spray of water erupted directly onto my pristine white chest. The indignity was absolute. I sprang back, hissing, shaking my paw as if it had touched fire. This was no toy. This was a trap, a posthumous insult from a fallen foe. I turned my back on the field of battle and stalked inside, my judgment final and my fur unforgivably damp.

Toss 'Em Water Bomb Balloon Tote

By: Unknown Brand

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has presented me with this "Toss 'Em Water Bomb Balloon Tote" from some shadowy organization known only as "Jaru." From what I can gather, it's a flimsy blue sack designed to hold small, rubbery skins that the humans then fill with *water*—an element I find personally offensive unless it's in my designated crystal bowl. The entire concept seems to be centered around creating loud pops and wet messes, two of my least favorite things. The only redeeming quality might be the bag itself, which has a drawstring that could provide a few moments of idle batting. Otherwise, this appears to be an apparatus for generating chaos, a complete waste of perfectly good napping and/or sunbathing time.

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The package arrived under the cover of late afternoon, a time I reserve for deep tactical sleeping. My human, the unwitting courier, placed the item on the floor. The markings were clear: "Jaru." A name whispered in the back alleys of the pet supply underworld, known for cheap materials and fleeting amusements. The asset was designated the "Water Bomb Tote." My mission, should I choose to accept it (and I always do), was to assess this potential threat to domestic tranquility. I stretched, extending each claw deliberately, a silent signal that Operation Infiltration had begun. I approached with the low, silent gait of a predator. The tote was made of a crinkly blue material that announced my every move, a frustratingly low-tech security feature. A long, white cord—the drawstring—dangled invitingly. A rookie might see a toy; I saw a potential garrote or a tripwire. I batted it gently, testing its tension, noting its flimsy construction. The human chuckled, misinterpreting my careful reconnaissance for play. Fool. The faint, dusty scent of cheap rubber emanated from within the bag's opening. This was no mere toy; it was a payload. With a final, decisive hook of my paw, I tipped the tote. The contents spilled onto the wood floor with a soft, pathetic clatter. They were not bombs in any respectable sense. They were a collection of sad, colorful, deflated skins. I nudged one with my nose. It was flimsy, pathetic. My intelligence brief (gleaned from overhearing the human read reviews aloud) suggested these were to be filled with water and would burst on impact. A weapon of mass annoyance. A tool for disrupting my naps with shrieks and damp spots on my favorite rugs. This was not an elegant weapon from a more civilized age; this was an instrument of sheer, wet barbarism. My verdict was swift and unforgiving. The "balloons" were an insult to my intelligence, and I would have no part in their deployment. I gave them one final, disdainful sniff before walking away. The tote, however… emptied of its absurd ammunition, the bag itself held some promise. It was small, dark, and made an excellent crinkling sound. I could easily stash a stolen bottle cap or a particularly prized feather inside. The threat was neutralized, and in its place, I had acquired a new mobile headquarters. The operation was a success, but only because I repurposed the enemy's flawed equipment for my own, far more sophisticated, endeavors.

Just Play Disney El Chupacabra Toss 'Em Planes

By: Just Play

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has procured a plush effigy of some sort of flying machine, a so-called "El Chupacabra" from a brand named 'Just Play,' a name that lacks a certain gravitas. The primary gimmick seems to be that it emits noises when slammed, a rather brutish concept designed for simpletons. Its shape is unorthodox for a proper victim—all wings and protuberances—but its softness might make it a serviceable headrest during a sunbeam nap. The electronic squawking, however, is a significant risk. It could easily disrupt the delicate sonic tapestry of my afternoon slumber, making this garish green object a high-risk, questionable-reward proposition.

Key Features

  • El Chupacabra comes to life
  • Hear fun phrases when you slam 'em
  • Collect them all

A Tale from Pete the Cat

It arrived as an offering, placed on the rug like a sacrifice to a slumbering god. I opened one eye. A garish green-and-red creature with a foolishly optimistic grin stared into the middle distance. An airplane. How pedestrian. It had the plush, yielding look of a low-grade pillow, but I am the sentinel of this domain, the furry warden of all that is soft and quiet. This newcomer would not escape my scrutiny. I rose, stretched with a deliberation that rippled through my tuxedo-marked fur, and began a slow, circular patrol, sniffing the air for any hint of treachery. It smelled faintly of cardboard and the vague disappointment of mass production. My human, observing my inspection, picked up the object. "Look, Pete! It's El Chupacabra!" she chirped, then, with a shocking display of violence, she slammed it onto the palm of her other hand. A tinny, accented voice erupted from its plush guts: *“I have a passion for the dramatic!”* I froze mid-stride, my tail a rigid question mark. The silence of my kingdom had been shattered by... a pronouncement. It wasn't a squeak of prey or the crinkle of a worthy bag. It was a declaration. This was not a toy; it was a herald, an orator, a tiny, pompous messenger from another world. My initial disdain curdled into a specific, scientific curiosity. What other pronouncements did this strange oracle hold? The human set it down. I approached, no longer a predator, but an archaeologist of sound. I raised a soft, gray paw, and with the careful precision of a bomb disposal expert, I tapped it. Nothing. More force was required. I gave it a solid thwack. *“It is good to be me!”* the plane bellowed. Ah. A philosopher of self-esteem. I batted it into the leg of the sofa. *“For the glory!”* it yelled, its voice slightly muffled by the upholstery. A warrior-poet, then. I spent the next hour conducting my symphony of slams. I was the conductor, and this plane was my chaotic, verbose orchestra. Its wisdom was repetitive, its passion manufactured, its glory entirely unearned. And yet... the percussive impact was deeply satisfying. It was a fool, this El Chupacabra, a loud-mouthed charlatan with no real substance. But it was a durable fool, and a fool that I, in my infinite grace and power, could command to speak with a simple, well-aimed blow. It is unworthy of a true intellectual debate, but as a percussive instrument of my will, it will suffice. For now.